BY 

PATR1C 


MAUREEN 


MAUREEN 


BY 

PATRICK   MACGILL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  DEAD  EMD," 
"THE  RATPIT,"  ETC 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  fcf  CO. 

1920 


Copyright,      1920,      by 
ROBERT    M.    McBuiDE    &    Co. 


Printed       in       t h € 
United     States     of     America 


Published     1920 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  EAMON  NA  SGADDAN            .     .     .     .     >     .  3 

II.  CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL 41 

III.  MAUREEN  0 'MALLET       .......  65 

IV.  COLUMB    EUAGH    KEERAN 113 

V.  MRS.  THORNTON   .     ., 157 

VI.  SEIN   FEINERS       . ,     .  213 

VII.  EILEEN   CONROY 249 

VIII.  THE  Two  GIRLS 275 

IX.  THE  RETURN  . 295 

X.  POTHEEN 315 

XI.  THE  ANCIENTS                          .     .     .    K    >  373 


THE  RACHART  WOR 


Said  Peadar  Rachary  Wor  (God  rest 

Man  alive  and  no  one  could  best  him  — 

Cement  in  a  bargain.    In  all  things  handy, 

Thatching  a  haystack  or  mending  a  pandy. 

His  back  wouldn't  bend  to  the  heaviest  load, 

And  his  -feet  were  as  sure  on  the  hill  as  the  road—  9 

In  warranty  certain.     When  he  departed 

All  his  neighbors  were  broken-hearted, 

And  they  gathered  together  and  pondered  o'er 

The  words  and  wisdom  of  Rachary  Wor. 

For  thus  he  spoke: 

"  'Twos  me  to  discover 

That  we  twist  the  same  rope  over  and  over; 
Some  do  it  middling,  others  better, 
The  rope  that  leaves  the  hand  of  the  letter. 

"What  do  we  know  and  what  have  we  thought  f 
Much,  but  never  as  much  as  we  ought. 
For  the  hand  may  touch  what  the  eye  can't  see, 
And  the  mind's  perplexed  by  the  things  that  be. 

"This  thing  or  that  thing  f    Read  me  the  riddle, 
And  in  through  other  strings  come  play  the  fiddle—  t 
We  come  and  we  go,  but  the  end  is  sure  — 
Kind  word,  act,  and  purpose.     The  three  endure. 

"Be  good,  be  sure;  but  remember  still 

To  a  man  his  due  and  a  woman  her  will. 

Conceity  the  maid  that's  cuddled  and  kissed: 

Ring  her  and  then  you'll  spancell  your  wrist. 

The  lease  with  a  bed  is  trying  and  long, 

Like  a  hair  in  the  mouth  or  a  drunkard's  song. 

Bedding  for  one  means  comfort  and  ease, 

But  bedding  for  two  and  she's  scratching  your  knees. 

"Soft  are  her  arms.    A  hangman's  rope 
Throttles  surer  when  greased  with  soap. 
Three  things  put  years  on  a  good  man's  life: 
1 


The  curl  in  the  gob  of  a  scolding  wife, 
The  purse  in  the  petticoat  he  can't  fill, 
And  the  nagging  tongue  that  is  never  ttitt. 

"Three  things  strong  and  the  house  is  blest: 
The  table,  the  fire,  and  the  hand  to  a  guest. 

"Three  sounds  of  increase:  a  lowing  cow, 
The  smithy  sparks,  the  swish  of  a  plow. 

"Three  are  the  tokens  of  goodly  drest: 
Elegance,  comfort,  and  lastingness. 

"Three  hands  and  the  world  its  best  will  yield: 
The  hand  in  the  smithy,  the  byre,  and  the  field. 

"What's  needed  is  needed  right  away; 
Don't  cut  the  scollops  on  a  windy  day. 

"The  back  of  my  hand  to  her  at  the  door 

Who  never  adds  weight  to  the  poor  man's  store. 

The  same  to  him  on  his  chair  all  day 

That  jabbers  and  gabs  with  nothing  to  say. 

"To  all:    Be  patient  and  good  and  kind, 
And  leave  a  name  that  will  live  behind." 

It  was  thus  he  spoke,  the  Rachary  Wor, 
A  man  of  substance  and  goodly  store; 
And  he  left  his  holding,  his  hearth,  and  home, 
And  they  buried  him  deep  in  the  graveyard  loam. 
They  carried  him  there  one  Lammastide, 
And  it's  seventeen  years  past  since  he  died. 
Still  they  pray  for  him  now  as  they  did  of  yore, 
For  the  soul  of  the  good  man  Rachary  Wor. 


MAUREEN 

CHAPTER   I 

EAMON  NA  SGADDAN 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  was  a  famous  man  in  the  par- 
ish of  Dungarrow.  All  knew  him;  even  the  tiniest 
children  as  yet  hardly  able  to  articulate  two  consecu- 
tive words  knew  Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  If  one  of  them  hap- 
pened when  resting  in  its  mother's  arms  to  see  a  stranger 
come  down  the  parish  road,  it  would  turn  to  its  mother 
and  say,  "Eamon  Chaddan."  Of  course  it  might  not  be 
Eamon.  Probably  the  stranger  was  a  woman  from  the  top 
of  the  hills,  a  beggarman  from  Frosses,  or  a  cowdrover  from 
the  very  heel  of  the  barony.  But  to  the  children,  especially 
to  the  very  young,  anything  strange  and  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary that  moved  on  two  feet  was  personified  in  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan. 

All  the  good  folk  of  the  parish,  the  parish  of  Dungarrow 
with  its  acres  of  hill  and  holm  and  its  strong  farmers, 
knew  him  by  name.  When  they  met  him  on  the  road  they 
greeted  him  with,  * '  Good  day,  Mr.  Brogan ! "  or,  "  Fit  and 
fine  the  day,  Mr.  Brogan!"  or,  "It's  the  grand  weather 
that's  in  it  now,  thank  God,  Mr.  Brogan."  Of  course  not 
one  had  the  temerity  or  bad  breeding  to  call  him  Eamon 
na  Sgaddan  to  his  face.  Above  everything  else  Dungar- 
row knew  its  manners,  especially  when  in  the  company  of 
Mr.  Brogan. 

Not  alone  did  the  simple  people  greet  him  with  respect, 
but  the  parish  priest  was  not  above  addressing  him  as 

3 


4  MAUREEN 

"Sir."  Even  the  doctor  was  once  heard  to  say,  "Beg  your 
pardon,  Mr.  Brogan,"  when  he  did  not  catch  some  remark 
made  to  him  by  Eamon  at  the  harvest  fair  of  Stranara- 
chary.  The  method  of  salutation  used  by  the  priest  and  the 
doctor  carried  great  weight  in  Dungarrow,  and  of  course 
the  parishioners  felt  bound  to  follow  the  lead  of  the  phy- 
sicians of  soul  and  body. 

This  exceptional  honor  given  to  a  man  of  the  people  by 
the  people  was  something  beyond  the  ordinary,  but  not 
out  of  place  when  we  consider  the  man  to  whom  the  honor 
was  given.  Other  people  in  their  various  ways  were  good 
and  worthy,  but  none  was  able  to  rise  to  the  lofty  pinnacle 
on  which  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  was  placed.  Of  course  all 
the  natives  were  hard  workers,  as  zealous  in  their  various 
pursuits  as  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  in  his,  but  none  rose  to 
his  height.  "He  was  born  to  it,"  the  people  said,  not 
meaning  that  he  was  actually  by  birth  entitled  to  repute 
and  renown  that  descended  from  his  forbears,  but  on  the 
contrary,  signifying  that  in  him  Eamon  had  the  seed  of 
greatness. 

In  what  his  greatness  consisted  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to 
say.  He  was  not  a  man  of  substance,  as  substance  is  gen- 
erally computed  in  Dungarrow,  in  house  property,  in  stock 
and  land.  He  had,  of  course,  a  little  plot  of  ground,  stuck 
on  the  side  of  Meenaroodagh  brae,  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  the  hind  leg  of  a  dog.  Spadeland  some  of  it  was,  but 
of  the  poorest  quality  and  unable  to  father  a  decent  crop 
of  sgiddins.  It  rose  up  from  the  road  towards  the  hills; 
and  fifty  yards  from  the  highway  stood  Eamon 's  house,  a 
ramshackle  building  that  let  the  rain  through  roof  and  wall 
in  the  slightest  shower.  It  consisted  of  one  apartment, 
and  here  dwelt  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  his  cow,  a  bony  animal 
called  Rompy,  a  cat  without  name  or  tail  (no  one  thought 
worth  while  to  give  it  the  former,  and  the  latter  was  cut 
off  by  a  scythe  as  the  animal  hunted  corn-crakes  through 
the  meadows),  and  a  dog  half  blind,  eternally  busy  with  the 
fleas  which  made  its  shaggy  coat  their  dwelling-place.  The 
dog  was  named  "Copenhagen." 

The  man  took  no  care  of  the  place,  never  thatched  the 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  5 

roof,  cleaned  the  floor  or  milked  the  cow.  In  fact  he 
never  did  any  manual  labor,  save  cooking  his  breakfast  in 
the  morning,  dressing  himself  and  walking  down  to  the 
village.  Here  he  stopped  all  day,  speaking  to  all  and  sun- 
dry, listening  to  any  and  every  conversation  and  buying 
or  borrowing  newspapers  when  they  happened  to  come  to 
the  village. 

He  came  back  late  in  the  evening,  moving  up  the  county 
road  with  a  long,  swinging  stride,  mumbling  to  himself, 
now  and  again  stopping  on  his  way  and  putting  his  hand 
to  his  brow  as  if  trying  to  recall  something  which  had 
slipped  his  mind.  If  a  passer-by  saw  him  then  and  spoke, 
Eamon  would  not  answer.  He  would  stare  at  the  speaker, 
then  at  his  own  hand,  which  he  would  stretch  out  four 
fingers  extended  and  the  thumb  pressed  in  against  the 
palm.  "Incomprehensible!"  he  would  exclaim,  to  himself 
of  course,  as  if  puzzling  over  something  which  he  could 
not  fathom.  The  word  "Incomprehensible"  was  a  favorite 
one  with  the  man,  but  now  and  again  he  would  give  utter- 
ance to  words  quite  as  long  and  high-sounding.  ' '  Counter- 
revolutionary" was  another  word  which  he  used  more  than 
once.  ' '  Cosmopolitan ' '  and  ' '  Entirely  without  precedent, ' ' 
he  had  been  heard  to  say. 

What  he  thought  of  when  giving  utterance  to  these  ex- 
clamations it  was  impossible  to  tell,  but  one  or  two  half- 
baked  youngsters,  sciolists  who  prided  themselves  on  their 
education,  insinuated  that  Eamon  himself  did  not  know 
what  these  words  meant,  that  he  read  them  in  a  newspaper 
and  spoke  them  just  to  pretend  that  he  was  a  learned  man. 
' '  Showing  off  he  was,  the  old  plaisham, ' '  said  these  young- 
sters. But  Dungarrow  would  not  listen.  They  knew  Eamon 
na  Sgaddan — Mr.  Brogan — who  always  wore  a  collar  and 
tie  even  when  he  deigned  to  work  with  a  spade  in  the 
field. 

Ordinary  people  termed  digging  "spadework."  Not  so 
Mr.  Brogan.  With  him  it  was  "husbandry."  Turf  to  him 
was  "turbary;"  a  bowl  of  tea  "a  slight  modicum  of  bever- 
age." To  him  a  drunken  man  was  "an  inebriated  per- 
son," a  close-fisted  neighbor  "a  parsimonious  individual." 


6  MAUREEN 

Thus  it  can  be  easily  understood  how  Dungarrow  with  its 
estimation  for  learning  would  not  hear  its  Mr.  Brogan 
slighted  even  when  he  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  road 
to  utter  mighty  words  which  none  could  understand.  It 
was  Learning,  and  a  man  with  the  learning  in  his  head 
could  not  be  looked  on  in  the  same  light  as  ordinary  men. 


Dungarrow  treated  Eamon  with  courtesy  and  he  re- 
turned the  courtesy  a  thousandfold.  Biddy  O'Donnel, 
nicknamed  "Leggy"  on  account  of  the  length  of  her  lower 
limbs,  was  Miss  O'Donnel  to  Eamon.  When  he  met  her  on 
the  road  he  raised  his  hat  with  a  graceful  flourish,  passed 
it  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left,  stretched  forth  the  hand 
that  was  free  and  grasped  that  of  Miss  O'Donnel.  But 
the  handshake  was  not  an  ordinary  one.  In  it  there  was 
something  graceful  and  refined,  something  so  superb  that 
the  other  men  of  the  place  could  never  copy  it.  When  he 
passed  the  hat  to  the  left  hand  he  grasped  it  tenderly 
with  thumb  and  fingers  as  if  it  were  a  child,  nestling  it  in 
against  his  breast  and  resting  the  rim  on  the  shoulder. 
Then,  pressing  his  right  elbow  to  his  side,  he  raised  his 
forearm  upwards,  fingers  tightly  together  and  thumb  stand- 
ing apart  like  an  interested  spectator,  turned  it  down  at 
the  wrist  and  brought  it  towards  the  lady  with  a  slow, 
graceful  motion  and  touched  Biddy 's  wrinkled  hand.  There 
was  something  extraordinary  in  the  whole  movement.  ' '  It 's 
the  quality  toss  that's  in  Mr.  Brogan 's  handshake,"  the 
people  said. 

.  Yes,  that  was  the  secret  of  the  man's  success  and  popular- 
ity. He  had  the  quality  toss  about  him.  This  was  in  keep- 
ing with  his  role  as  a  public  character,  a  picturesque  symbol 
of  the  heights  to  which  a  man  may  rise  in  his  own  arm  of 
the  world.  Whatever  he  did  was  noted  by  the  people  and 
spoken  of  afterwards.  If  he  figured  for  a  moment  in  any 
public  function,  a  meeting  of  a  local  society  for  example, 
the  affair  attained  additional  eminence  by  Eamon 's  pres- 
ence. If  he  spoke,  the  others  repeated  his  remarks,  weighed 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  7 

them,  analyzed  them,  and  took  stock  of  them  from  various 
angles. 

Once  it  happened  that  there  was  a  dispute  between  two 
families,  the  Sweeneys  and  the  Gallaghers,  concerning  a 
right  of  way  towards  the  moors  and  upper  grazing-grounds 
of  Dungarrow.  It  was  decided  to  settle  the  dispute  by 
placing  the  facts  of  the  matter  before  the  elders  of  the 
townland  and  acting  on  their  judgment.  Eamon  na  Sgad- 
dan  was  also  invited  to  attend,  not  because  the  matter  was 
any  concern  of  his  but  simply  on  account  of  the  pre- 
eminence which  the  man  enjoyed  in  the  locality. 

The  case  came  before  the  gray-bearded  and  venerable 
patriarchs  of  the  place.  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  wise  in 
jurisprudence  and  famed  for  his  ability  in  restoring  order 
in  many  a  chaos  of  contention,  was  in  the  chair.  Proceed- 
ings opened  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  Gal- 
laghers stated  their  case. 

The  boreen,  or  lane,  leading  up  through  the  awlth  to  a 
braeface,  bounden  on  one  side  by  the  Sweeneys'  farm  and 
on  the  other  by  the  land  of  the  .Gallaghers,  belonged  to 
the  Gallaghers  from  time  immemorial.  It  was  owned  by 
Hugh  Ruagh  Gallagher  that  was  great-grandfather  of  the 
Gallaghers  now  living.  All  the  old  people  of  the  parish 
knew  that.  Breed  Heila,  God  rest  her!  who  died  thirty 
years  ago  come  next  Candlemas,  testified  and  swore  before 
the  parish  priest  of  her  time  that  Hugh  Ruagh  Gallagher 
that  was  had  the  right  of  way  of  the  awlth  and  its  caisin 
without  let  or  hindrance  through  all  the  years  of  his  life. 
He  was  a  man  respected  by  all  the  neighbors  in  his  day, 
and  if  it  were  not  fair  and  above-board  to  have  the  use  of 
that  caisin  for  his  animals  he  would  not  use  it. 

In  this  way  did  the  Gallaghers  put  their  case  forward, 
now  and  again  interrupted  by  the  Sweeneys,  who  could 
show  that  the  man  named  Hugh  Ruagh  Gallagher  was  not 
altogether  such  a  worthy  being  as  his  descendants  made  him 
out  to  be ;  that,  in  fact,  he  had  been  once  guilty  of  sheep- 
stealing  and  another  time  of  selling  a  faulty  horse  to  his 
next-door  neighbor,  who  was  a  forbear  of  the  Sweeneys  of 
to-day. 


8  MAUREEN 

"Speak  no  ill  of  the  dead,"  said  the  Gallaghers.  "They 
can 't  speak  back. ' ' 

An  admirable  precept  this,  but  unfortunately  forgotten 
by  the  Gallaghers  when  the  other  party  spoke  of  the  merits 
of  the  Sweeneys  who  had  gone  before.  Noon  came,  and  the 
discussion  was  not  at  an  end:  at  one  o'clock  the  ancient 
and  wrinkled  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  remarked  that  it  was 
dinner  time, ' '  and  be  the  look  iv  it, ' '  he  added, ' '  we  '11  never 
make  hilt  or  hair  iv  this  matter." 

It  was  then  that  Mr.  Brogan  spoke. 

"Both  parties,  anti  and  pro,  are  spreadeagled  on  a  Ser- 
bonian  bog,"  he  said.  "Matters  can  be  simplified  and  the 
problem  eradicated  if  both  parties,  anti  and  pro,  agree 
to  use  the  obstacle  of  contention  in  common." 

With  these  words  he  got  to  his  feet  and,  without  casting 
a  glance  at  any  one  in  the  room,  he  went  out  sideways 
through  the  door. 

"That  will  make  matters  aisy  if  both  parties,  anti  and 
pro,  agree,"  said  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  who,  though 
loth  to  allow  the  matter  to  be  settled  by  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan,  felt  in  need  of  his  dinner.  "Shake  hands  on 
the  matter,"  he  said,  "and  make  the  right  iv  way 
common  property  to  the  two  iv  yees,  Gallaghers  and 
Sweeneys." 

The  parties  agreed  and  in  this  way,  the  matter  being 
brought  to  a  sound  conclusion,  added  fresh  laurels  to  Mr. 
Brogan 's  name,  discretion  and  sound  judgment. 

m 

In  a  parish  like  Dungarrow,  beyond  railway  reach,  where 
every  man  knows  his  neighbor  and  the  strength  of  the 
neighbor's  house  in  style,  stock,  and  substance,  it  is  a  com- 
mon thing  to  find  people  shorn  of  their  patronymics  and 
given  instead  a  name  which  signifies  their  vocation,  place 
of  dwelling,  or  physical  peculiarity.  This,  in  places  where 
remnants  of  the  ancient  clan  system  still  flourish,  is  in  a 
degree  necessary.  In  a  townland  of  twelve  families  where 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  9 

the  O'Friels,  for  example,  predominate,  it  may  be  possible 
to  find  eight  Paddy  O'Friels,  and  the  locality  being  so 
confined,  it  takes  some  trouble  to  differentiate  one  particu- 
lar Paddy  amongst  the  seven  others. 

Special  methods  are  therefore  adopted  to  meet  the  dif- 
ficulty. One  male  is  known  as  Paddy  Paddy  Beag  (Paddy 
the  son  of  Little  Paddy),  another  as  Paddy  Paddy  Wor 
(Paddy  the  son  of  Big  Paddy),  a  third  as  Paddy  Paddy  a 
Waura  (Paddy  the  son  of  Paddy  the  son  of  Mary),  etc., 
etc. 

But  in  no  way  like  this  did  Mr.  Brogan  get  his  by-name, 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  He  was  not  named  after  a  vocation 
as  Paddy  a  Greasaid  (Paddy  the  Shoemaker),  nor  after 
the  place  where  he  lived  like  Paddy  a  Crick  (Paddy  of  the 
Hill),  nor  from  a  physical  peculiarity  like  Paddy  Cam 
(Crooked  Paddy).  In  fact,  and  rightly,  Mr.  Brogan  ob- 
tained his  cognomen  from  his  own  scholarly  attainments 
when  these  were  used  in  championing  the  food  value  of 
the  everyday,  simple,  inoffensive  and  humble  article  of  diet 
— the  homely  sprat. 

It  happened  one  day  that  some  neighbors,  Coy  Fergus 
Beeragh  amongst  them,  went  into  Mr.  Brogan 's  house  and 
found  the  worthy  man,  hatless,  bootless  and  collarless,  pre- 
paring his  breakfast.  On  the  table  stood  a  pandy  of  tea, 
a  paper  horn  of  sugar,  a  jug  of  milk,  a  thick  slice  of  bread 
and  butter  and  two  duck  eggs  newly  laid  and  newly  boiled. 
This  in  itself  was  a  good  repast  for  a  sound,  healthy  man 
with  a  day's  work  in  front  of  him  "but  overmuch,"  the 
neighbors  said  afterwards,  ' '  for  a  man  the  cut  iv  a  plucked 
gosling  with  guts  that  would  hardly  fill  the  skin  iv  an  eel. 
And  him  a  scholar,  too!" 

But  not  alone  in  table  fare  did  Mr.  Brogan  offend  the 
susceptibilities  of  the  peasantry,  who  saw  there  something 
at  variance  with  their  preconceived  ideas  of  a  scholar's 
appetite.  The  fireplace  added  still  more  evidence  of  the 
man's  eating  powers.  On  the  greeshaugh,  leveled  hand- 
smooth  with  the  back  of  a  shovel,  were  a  number  of  roast- 
ing sprats,  spluttering,  hissing  and  turning  their  tails  up 


10  MAUREEN 

as  if  the  heat  was  instilling  the  essence  of  resurrection  into 
the  dead,  diminutive  things. 

"Roastin'  a  sgaddan  or  two  for  yer  breakfast,  Mr.  Bro- 
gan?" asked  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  with  a  malicious  chuckle. 
He  was  envious  of  Eamon's  reputation  as  a  scholar. 

"These  sardines,  you  mean,"  said  Eamon,  catching  one 
by  the  tongs  and  placing  it  on  the  floor.  ' '  Infinitesimal  to 
look  at,"  he  added,  "but  their  food  value  is  superb." 

"They  go  well  with  duck  eggs,"  said  Coy,  casting  a  sly 
glance  at  the  table. 

"I  never  masticate  eggs,"  said  Eamon. 

Coy,  a  man  who  knew  things,  but  not  a  scholar,  did  not 
want  to  profess  ignorance  of  the  word  "masticate"  by 
asking  Eamon  what  he  really  meant,  so  he  chose  to  remain 
silent. 

"I  give  eggs  to  my  canine  friend,  Copenhagen,"  said 
Eamon,  pointing  to  the  dog  which  sat  on  its  hunkers  near 
the  door,  scratching  its  shaggy  coat  with  a  paw  in  the  hope 
of  raking  out  that  which  its  teeth  could  not  find. 

"Duck  eggs  to  a  dog!"  exclaimed  Coy,  shaking  his  head 
and  waving  his  fists  in  a  condemnatory  gesture.  "It's  a 
mortal  sin,  Mr.  Brogan.  To  a  dog !  To  that  bundle  iv  hair 
and  maggots." 

"Even  dogs  must  get  the  wherewithal  of  life,"  said 
Eamon. 

"And  ye  put  yerself  on  sprats  when  a  dog  ates  eggs 
like  a  Christian?"  asked  Coy. 

"Necessity  knows  no  law,"  said  Eamon,  with  a  superb 
wave  of  his  hand.  "As  a  martyr  to  dyspepsia  and  flatu- 
lence, I  find  in  sardines  Nature's  own  remedy  for  the  ills 
which  flesh  is  heir  to.  Mr.  Beeragh" — he  raised  his  voice 
and  looked  at  the  roof — "Mr.  Beeragh,  if  the  ladies  of 
this  nation  consumed  more  sardines,  the  medical  profes- 
sion would  become  bankrupt." 

Afterwards  it  was  noticed  in  the  parish  that  sprats  were 
held  in  higher  esteem  by  the  Dungarrow  housewives,  and 
from  then  on,  Mr.  Brogan,  the  first  man  to  bear  testimony 
to  their  worth  and  consequence,  became  known  to  one  and 
all  as  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  (Edward  The  Sprat). 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  11 

IV 

Eamon  left  his  native  townland  every  year  about  the 
middle  of  May  and  did  not  return  again  until  the  following 
October.  Where  he  went  to  was  a  mystery  known  to  none 
save  himself.  At  least,  it  was  not  known  to  anybody  in  the 
parish  of  Dungarrow.  In  May  Mr.  Brogan  let  his  land, 
its  meadow,  grazing,  and  turbary,  to  the  highest  bidder, 
and  disappeared.  "I  am  shortly  going  abroad  on  busi- 
ness," he  would  say  prior  to  his  departure.  That  was  all, 
but  for  a  week  this  would  be  sole  topic  of  conversation  in 
the  neighborhood. 

"Now  what  can  be  the  kind  iv  business  that  Mr.  Brogan 
does?"  the  people  asked  one  another.  "He's  very  close 
about  it,  whatever  it  is."  "There's  money  in  it  anyway," 
they  would  admit,  for  it  was  well  known  that  Mr.  Brogan 
always  came  back  at  the  heel  of  the  year  with  silver  to 
spare  and  spend. 

Then  he  would  go  secretly.  Probably  one  evening  he 
would  be  seen  coming  back  from  the  village,  mumbling  to 
himself  as  usual.  At  this  time  of  the  year  he  might  now 
and  again  take  notice  of  a  neighbor  on  the  road,  and  reply 
to  a  question. 

"Not  away  on  business  yet,  Mr.  Brogan?"  he  might  be 
asked. 

"Orders  not  to  hand  so  far,"  he  would  reply,  stand  for 
a  moment  as  if  considering  the  answer  which  he  had  given, 
then  without  another  word  walk  away. 

Perhaps  he  had  gone  the  next  morning,  vanished  into 
the  unknown. 

Did  he  go  by  a  wheeled  vehicle,  drawn  by  horse  or  moved 
by  steam?  Did  he  walk?  Nobody  knew,  but  the  fact  re- 
mained that  Mr.  Brogan  was  absent  from  his  circle  for 
the  five  months  following. 

The  neighbors  were  of  course  full  of  curiosity  as  to  Mr. 
Brogan 's  movements  abroad.  Some  said  that  he  dealt  in 
eggs,  others  in  tea  or  whisky.  Business  did  not  mean  ordi- 
nary work,  of  course,  such  as  using  a  spade  on  a  farm  or 
a  pick  in  a  railway  cutting.  Other  young  men  went  away 


12  MAUREEN 

from  the  locality  yearly,  some  to  navvy,  others  to  work 
on  railways  or  farms.  Of  course  that  was  not  business; 
it  was  simply  ordinary  labor,  in  which  money  was  earned 
by  the  hard  sweat  of  the  brow.  But  Mr.  Brogan  would 
not  demean  himself  by  sinking  to  the  ordinary  common- 
place of  losing  sweat  to  gain  money.  He  was  a  being  who 
always  wore  a  collar  at  home  and  who  would  wear  it  abroad, 
as  befitted  Mr.  Brogan,  the  quality  man. 

But  a  veil  of  secrecy,  when  worn  for  a  long  time,  is  apt 
to  become  thin  in  fabric,  as  the  strongest  window-blind, 
after  years  of  wear,  is  liable  to  let  the  light  through.  So 
with  the  blind  which  hid  the  movements  of  Mr.  Brogan  in 
his  yearly  absence  from  Dungarrow.  At  the  beginning  the 
people  were  filled  with  a  burning  curiosity.  "Why  does 
he  go  away  like  this?"  they  asked.  "There's  something 
funny  in  it."  But  the  window-blind  was  well  drawn. 
Not  a  ray  of  light  could  be  seen  at  any  corner. 

Then  came  the  supposition.  "He  may  go  away  on  busi- 
ness," the  people  said,  "but  he  has  to  go  every  year,  just 
the  same  as  them  that  goes  to  the  harvest  beyont  the  water. 
He  has  money  back  with  him  iv  course,  but  all  who  comes 
home  has  money  with  them  when  it  nears  the  heel  of  the 
year.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  it  is  to  the  harvest  that  he 
goes  and  it  the  harvest-time,  too.  And  he  steals  away  like 
a  person  that's  after  a  neighbor's  turf  in  the  dark.  It's 
not  much  iv  a  business  that  will  call  on  a  man  to  hide  it 
as  he  does."  The  fabric  of  the  blind  was  wearing  thin. 

Then  came  the  man — young  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel  of 
Drimeeney — who  traveled  by  boat  from  Derry  to  Greenock 
and  who  saw  in  that  boat  Mr.  Brogan,  carrying  as  luggage 
the  contents  of  a  red  woolen  kerchief.  In  fact,  Mr.  Brogan 
was  going  to  business  with  a  harvestman's  bundle. 

"So  the  two  of  us  are  on  the  same  boat,"  said  Searlas 
Dhu,  when  he  saw  Eamon. 

"We  are,  Searlas,"  said  Mr.  Brogan,  and  a  woe-begone 
expression  settled  on  his  face  as  he  spoke.  "Man's  in- 
humanity to  man  makes  countless  thousands  mourn,  for  as 
I  sat  down  in  Ferryquay  Hotel,  Derry,  to  a  slight  modicum 
of  beverage,  the  sleep  came  over  me  and  when  I  woke  up,  lo 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  13 

and  behold !  if  my  luggage  wasn  't  disappeared.  But  busi- 
ness being  pressin'  I  couldn't  wait,  so  I  put  a  few  neces- 
saries in  this  red  abomination  and  here  you  see  me." 

1  'And  did  the  thief  collar  your  money,  too?"  asked  the 
inquisitive  Searlas. 

"Fifty  pounds  in  gold,"  said  Mr.  Brogan,  with  a  sigh. 
"Fifty  pounds  and  here  I'm  traveling  steerage,  a  thing 
I've  never  done  before." 

When  Searlas  Dhu  came  home  from  Scotland  at  the  end 
of  the  year,  he  told  of  his  meeting  with  Mr.  Brogan.  Dun- 
garrow  lent  a  ready  ear  to  the  tale,  and  with  the  same 
readiness  declared  it  false,  not  so  much  because  Mr.  Brogan 
was  a  Dungarrow  man  as  because  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel 
hailed  from  the  townland  of  Drimeeney.  Dungarrow  con- 
tains thirty-seven  townlands,  thirty-six  and  Drimeeney, 
which  happens  to  be  an  outcast  arm  of  the  parish,  unloved 
and  unhonored.  The  devil,  as  is  well  known,  tampers  with 
God's  handiwork,  and  even  Dungarrow  offers  an  illustra- 
tion of  this  fact.  God  made  it,  but  the  devil  came  in  and 
fashioned  Drimeeney.  The  people  who  dwelt  there,  red- 
haired  crabbit  folk,  men  who  would  lend  you  a  rope  to 
hang  yourself  and  charge  your  relatives  interest  on  the 
rope,  women  hard  as  the  hob  of  hell  who  would  steal  a 
mouse  from  a  blind  kitten,  and  children  fed  on  the  blood 
of  a  black  cat,  and  evil  disposed  towards  the  world  all 
through  their  lives.  Lucky  for  Mr.  Brogan  and  his  parish 
prestige  that  he  was  seen  on  the  Derry  boat  with  a  har- 
vester 's  bundle  by  a  Drimeeney  man. 

But  alas  for  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  that  year!  A  next-door 
neighbor  of  his  own,  a  red-haired  youngster  named  Columb 
Buagh  Keeran,  out  of  work  in  Scotland  and  tramping  the 
country  from  farm  to  farm  looking  for  a  job,  happened  to 
come  across  Mr.  Brogan  one  day  near  Paisley,  emptying 
dung-wagons  on  a  free  coup. 

"Mother  of  God!"  said  the  man.  "And  is  it  yourself 
that's  in  it,  Eamon?" 

Not  Mr.  Brogan,  but  simply  "Eamon."  And  this  from 
a  Dungarrow  man!  But,  after  all,  what  could  he  expect, 
being  discovered  under  such  circumstances  ?  A  Mr.  Brogan 


14  MAUREEN 

could  not  descend  to  the  menial  task  of  emptying  manure 
from  a  cart.  It  was  a  job  for  an  Eamon,  the  menial  toil 
of  an  ordinary  man.  Mr.  Brogan  stared  vacantly  at  Columb 
Ruagh,  stroked  a  hairy  chin  with  calloused  fingers,  rubbed 
the  open  neck  of  a  red  flannel  shirt  with  his  other  hand 
and  burst  into  tears. 


The  secret  was  revealed,  the  blind  withdrawn,  and  in- 
stead of  being  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  a  mighty  business 
establishment  as  was  anticipated,  Dungarrow,  in  the  per- 
son of  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran,  choked  in  the  fetor  of  a 
dung-wallow. 

Columb  Ruagh  stared  at  the  wagon,  at  the  dung,  the 
graip  which  Mr.  Brogan  held  in  his  hand,  then  at  Mr. 
Brogan  himself.  He  looked  the  man  up  and  down,  at  his 
dung-flaked  boots,  his  draggled,  bell-mouthed  corduroy 
trousers,  with  their  knee-straps  topping  the  calves,  and 
their  suspenders  fastened  to  the  waist  by  nails.  The  red 
flannel  shirt,  buttonless,  showed  a  hairy,  sallow  chest,  and 
torn,  a  punched  belly  naked  to  the  navel.  In  paucity  of 
paunch,  inconcinnity  of  parts  and  lack  of  symmetry, 
Eamon  somehow  had  the  appearance  of  an  unfledged  gos- 
ling. 

"Well,  Mother  iv  Mercy!"  said  Columb  Ruagh,  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  suddenly  confronted  by  a  wondrous  spectacle 
which  he  cannot  explain,  "who'd  have  ever  looked  for  you 
here,  Eamon.  Is  this  where  you  always  come  to  when  you 
leave  home?" 

"This  is  what  I  do,"  said  Eamon,  with  awkward  diffi- 
dence, the  tears  running  from  his  eyes. 

"And  us  all  back  home  thinkin'  that  it's  away  on  busi- 
ness that  ye  are, ' '  said  Columb,  in  a  slow,  thoughtful  tone, 
as  if  trying  to  set  this  strange  discovery  in  its  proper  per- 
spective. "And  this  is  what  ye 're  at  all  the  time?" 

"All  the  time,"  said  Eamon.  As  he  spoke  his  eyes  lit 
up  as  if  something  new  and  beneficent  had  occurred  to 
him.  "All  the  time  now,"  he  added.  "So  much  depended 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  15 

in  my  life  on  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  market,  the  rise  and 
fall  of  shares.  To-day,  Mr.  Keeran,  we  rest  on  the  lap  of 
luxury,  to-morrow  we  shelter  our  weary  bodies  in  the 
workhouse  ward." 

"Just  thought  iv  that,  haven't  ye  now?"  said  Columb 
cruelly,  his  wonder  suddenly  evaporating,  and  a  crafty, 
calculating  leer  settling  in  the  corner  of  his  eyes.  * '  Goigah, 
when  ye  were  at  home  one  would  think  that  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  yer  mouth,  and  here  I  find  ye  tellin'  such  lies.  I 
never  thought  that  iv  ye,  Eamon,  never  would  even  it  to 
ye." 

"You  don't  take  my  word  for  what  I  say?"  asked  Eamon, 
fixing  tearful  eyes  on  Columb  Ruagh. 

"Well,  if  ye  want  me  to  take  yer  word,  I'll  take  it," 
said  the  young  man  casually,  with  a  sidelong  glance.  "I'll 
take  any  man's  word  if  it  comes  to  that,  but  all  the  same 
what  is  the  good  iv  a  word,  when  ye 're  half  starved  and 
out  on  the  roads  trampin'  the  causeys  in  from  the 'shriek 
iv  day  till  night,  with  never  a  penny  piece  in  yer  pocket 
or  a  bite  iv  anything  to  warm  yer  guts.  Then  ye  come  to 
a  man,  a  towney  iv  yer  own  on  business  (from  what  he 
says),  and  all  that  he'll  give  ye  is  his  word.  Damn  yer 
word's  what  I  say,  Eamon,  when  there's  nothin'  with  it." 

"I've  a  piece  in  my  handkerchief  and  a  drop  iv  tay  in 
the  bottle  that's  at  the  fut  iv  the  slope  under  my  coat," 
said  Eamon. 

"Is  the  tay  cold?"  asked  Columb,  sitting  on  his  hunkers 
and  looking  at  Mr.  Brogan. 

"It's  cold,"  Eamon  assented. 

"Well,  the  curse  iv  hell  on  it,  then,"  said  Columb  in  an 
irate  voice.  "It's  not  a  skinful  iv  cold  tay  that  I  want, 
Eamon.  It's  somethin'  else  and  can  you  guess  what  it 
is?" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Eamon  lamely. 

"Money,"  said  Columb,  springing  to  his  feet  with  a 
vigorous  bound,  and  opening  and  closing  his  fists.  Eamon, 
affrighted,  stepped  back  a  pace.  Columb  was  a  young  and 
vigorous  man,  supple  as  a  hare  and  strong  as  a  bull.  In 
him  vast,  mysterious  forces  seemed  to  be  sullenly  reposing, 


16  MAUREEN 

but  ready  at  any  moment  to  burst  their  bonds  and  explode 
like  a  thunderstorm.  " Money  is  what  I  want,"  he  roared 
with  an  evil  chuckle.  "I  would  cut  the  head  off  iv  a  man 
for  ashillin'!" 

"God  look  on  us !"  said  Eamon,  with  a  gasp. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I'd  do,"  said  Columb,  emphasizing 
the  averment.  "I  haven't  broke  bread  for  two  days,  and 
I  haven 't  seen  what  buys  it  for  two  months.  Some  men  are 
damned  lucky,"  he  growled,  and  glowered  at  Eamon. 
1 '  They  can  get  work,  and  when  they  see  their  poor  towneys 
on  the  dead  end  all  that  they  can  offer  them  is  a  bottle  iv 
cold  tay." 

"But  the  times  are  bad  for  every  one,"  said  Eamon, 
pulling  his  shirt  front  together  with  nerveless  fingers. 

"You'll  tell  me  next,  I  suppose,  that  ye  haven't  a  job," 
said  Columb  maliciously.  "What  screw  d'ye  get  on  this 
shift?" 

"Twenty-one  shillings  a  week." 

"And  the  rest,"  said  Columb.  "Have  ye  anything  to 
spare?" 

"Half  a  crown,"  said  Eamon  tentatively,  feeling  in  his 
trousers  pockets.  The  shirt  came  open  again. 

' '  No  good  to  me, ' '  said  Columb,  with  the  air  of  a  man  giv- 
ing a  verdict  beyond  appeal.  "And  ye've  a  damned  sight 
more  money  than  that.  You  get  a  bothie  here  to  sleep  in, 
don 't  ye  ? "  he  inquired. 

"I  do,"  said  Eamon. 

"I've  heard  iv  this  place,"  said  Columb.  "I  met  men 
that  worked  here.  And  ye  pick  pieces  of  coal  from  the 
coup  and  make  yer  fire  ? ' ' 

"I  do,"  Eamon  acquiesced. 

"And  ye  get  pratees  free  and  milk  for  next  to  nothing," 
Columb  proceeded. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Eamon  with  some  hesitation  as  if 
Columb 's  last  statement  was  in  some  measure  open  to  con- 
tradiction. 

"So,  takin'  it  all  in  all,  this  is  a  damned  good  job,"  said 
Columb  with  hurried  insistence  as  if  determined  to  pre- 
vent Eamon  from  speaking.  "All  ye've  to  buy  for  yerself 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  17 

is  maybe  a  loaf  and  a  bit  iv  steak  and  a  taste  iv  tay  and 
sugar,  and  ye  live  like  a  king  when  a  towney  iv  yer  own 
is  put  hard  to  it,  lyin'  in  under  bridges  at  night  and  trav- 
elin'  belly  boast  be  day.  And  ye  offer  him  a  half-crown, 
and  ye  without  chick  or  child  to  make  any  claim  on  ye 
when  ye 're  at  home.  Be  a  towney,  Eamon,  be  a  towney! 
Slide  me  out  three  pounds  and  let  me  get  out  on  my  own 
again!" 

"I  can't  spare  it,"  said  Eamon  weakly. 

"A  business  man,"  said  Columb  cynically. 

"I'll  make  it  ten  shillin's,"  said  Eamon. 

"Three  pounds,"  replied  the  inflexible  Columb. 

"I  haven't  got  it" 

"Give  me  three  pounds  and  I'll  let  you  down  light,  Mr. 
Brogan,"  Columb  replied.  "That,  and  never  a  word  will 
they  hear  in  Dungarrow  about  me  meetin'  you  here.  You'll 
be  Mr.  Brogan  next  winter  as  well  as  last  winter.  Columb 
Huagh  won't  give  the  show  away." 

"Say  a  pound  and  never  speak  about  meetin'  me  here," 
Mr.  Brogan  mumbled  in  a  thick  voice ;  conflicting  emotions, 
the  desire  to  economize,  the  vanity  of  parish  prestige  and 
fear  of  the  mighty  Columb  Euagh  glutting  his  utterance. 

Columb  cast  a  swift,  penetrating  glance  around,  taking 
stock  of  the  country-side.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  The 
man's  lips  shut  tightly,  as  if  he  had  come  to  a  sudden  deci- 
sion. He  stepped  up  to  Eamon. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  in  a  tense  whisper.  "I  want  three 
pounds.  Fork  it  out  and  let  me  slide.  If  you  don't  I'll 
wring  your  neck  off  and  put  an  end  to  your  business.  Now, 
into  your  pocket  and  out  with  it ! " 

White  with  terror,  Eamon  groped  in  the  pocket  of  his 
trousers,  drew  out  a  purse  and  emptied  the  contents  in  his 
hand. 

"Two  pounds  eighteen,"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"That's  all  that  I  have  in  the  world.  Take  it  and  leave 
me  my  lone." 

Columb  caught  the  money  and  shoved  it  into  the  pocket 
of  his  waistcoat. 

"Well,  I'll  never  let  them  know  in  Dungarrow  how  I've 


18  MAUREEN 

met  ye,"  he  said  graciously.  "So  slan  leat,  Mr.  Brogan, 
I'm  off!" 

Two  weeks  later  Columb  met  another  Dungarrow  laborer 
in  Glasgow,  and  despite  the  assurance  given  to  Mr.  Bro- 
gan, he  gave  this  man  a  detailed  account  of  the  incident 
on  the  free  coup :  how  Mr.  Brogan,  without  collar  and  tie, 
dressed  in  a  red  flannel  shirt  and  corduroy  trousers,  was 
encountered  busily  emptying  dung  from  a  Glasgow  Cor- 
poration wagon;  how  Eamon  wept  when  he  was  discov- 
ered there,  .and  told  a  cock-and-bull  story  about  a  business 
that  went  smash;  how  Eamon 's  dinner  consisted  of  a  piece 
in  a  red  handkerchief  and  cold  tea  in  a  beer-bottle,  etc., 
etc.  Columb  Ruagh,  though  not  having  the  forbearance 
to  refrain  from  mentioning  this  incident,  had  the  grace, 
we  must  admit,  to  add  that  he  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  man. 
Needless  to  say,  Columb  said  nothing  concerning  the  affair 
of  the  three  pounds.  This  being  a  mere  domestic  concern 
of  interest  to  none  save  Columb  Ruagh  and  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan,  it  was  not  considered  worthy  of  notice. 

Thereupon  light  in  relation  to  the  secret  movements  of 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan  filtered  through  to  Dungarrow,  and 
finding  out  what  the  man  had  striven  to  conceal,  all  local 
interest  in  his  life  evaporated.  He  was  just  an*  ordinary 
man,  a  plaisham,  a  fool,  one  who  strove  to  act  a  part  for 
which  he  was  not  fitted  and  to  which  he  was  not  entitled. 
True,  he  had  big  words,  but  did  he  know  what  these  words 
meant?  True,  he  settled  the  dispute  between  the  Gal- 
laghers and  Sweeneys,  but  did  not  everybody  in  the  parish 
see  from  the  very  beginning  that  this  was  the  only  manner 
of  settling  the  right-of-way  matter  ?  True,  he  wore  a  col- 
lar and  tie,  but  then  any  man  if  he  had  the  same  impu- 
dence and  face  as  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  could  wear  a  collar 
and  tie.  In  fact,  the  people  with  a  new  sense  of  values  saw 
that  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  was  no  better  than  themselves, 
that,  in  fact,  he  was  not  as  good  as  his  neighbors.  He  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  lazy  rake,  not  fit  to  do  a 
hand's  turn  for  himself.  Mr.  Brogan  indeed!  No  Mr. 
Brogan  in  future !  From  now  onward  he  would  be  known 
as  the  simple  plaisham,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  Wait  till 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  19 

he  came  home  at  the  heel  of  the  year!    They  would  show 
him! 

VI 

But  before  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  came  home  new  events 
transpired  which  did  a  lot  to  change  the  outlook  of  the 
Dungarrow  people,  especially  of  mothers  who  had  daugh- 
ters of  marriageable  age.  Tague  Meehal  Padraig,  one  of 
the  oldest  men  in  the  locality,  died  at  the  age  of  ninety- 
four,  leaving  behind  him  a  well-stocked  farm,  containing 
sixty  acres  or  thereabout,  situate  in  the  townland  of  Meen- 
aroodagh,  held  under  the  Marquis  of  Bristol  at  the  low 
half-yearly  judicial  rent  of  four  pounds,  seven  shillings 
and  sixpence.  The  lands  which  adjoined  the  county  road 
leading  from  Greenanore  to  Frosses  were  well  fenced, 
drained  and  watered,  and  in  high  state  of  cultivation,  con- 
taining six  acres  of  ground  suitable  for  cropping,  three 
acres  turbary,  and  the  remainder  first-class  grazing-ground. 
Tague  Meehal  Padraig  lived  all  alone  in  his  home  and  em- 
ployed day  laborers  to  do  the  work  of  the  farm.  Before 
dying  he  made  a  will  leaving  the  farm  to  his  next  of  kin, 
the  neighbor  across  the  march  ditch,  who  was  his  nephew 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan. 

Eamon  na  Sgaddan  returned  home  as  usual  towards  the 
end  of  October,  attired  in  pomp,  and  wearing  his  collar 
and  tie,  his  heart  filled  with  the  hope  that  probably  Columb 
Kuagh  did  not  tell  the  Dungarrow  people  what  he  had  seen 
abroad.  The  first  person  he  met  on  alighting  from  the 
mail-car  at  the  village  of  Stranarachary  (population  211, 
public  houses  7,  police  8)  was  his  neighbor  the  venerable 
Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  the  authority  on  by-law  and  popular 
jurisprudence. 

"Back  to  us  again,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  Coy,  shaking  the 
stranger's  hand  with  both  his  own.  "Back  again  to  fame 
and  fortune?" 

"I'm  delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Beeragh,"  said  the  re- 
turned business  man.  "After  long  absence  it  delights  my 
heart  to  come  again  to  the  old  surroundings," 


20  MAUREEN 

"And  it'll  delight  ye  much  more  when  ye  hear  what's 
to  hear,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  with  a 
cunning  wink.  "Much  and  away  more,  me  laddybuck!" 

Mr.  Brogan  winced  a  little.  The  term  laddybuck  was 
one  which  had  never  been  applied  to  him  before,  at  least 
not  since  he  grew  to  be  a  man  and  wore  the  white  collar. 

"And  what  is  this  sensational  disclosure?"  he  asked,  the 
ancient  pride  of  the  collared  scholar  giving  tone  and  ad- 
dress to  the  utterance. 

"What  is  it  that's  up  me  sleeve,  ye  mane?"  said  Coy 
Beeragh,  giving  Mr.  Brogan  a  nudge  on  the  ribs  with  his 
elbow  and  again  winking.  "It's  somethin'  that  doesn't 
often  occur  in  the  parish  iv  Dungarrow,  Mr.  Brogan.  The 
last  time  a  thing  like  it  took  place  was  fifty  years  ago  and 
me  a  wee  boy  not  more  than  the  height  iv  two  turf  with  me 
heels  in  the  ashes  and  the  A  B  C's  on  me  legs.  And  it 
was  a  divil  iv  a  wee  boy  that  I  was  in  them  days,  Mr.  Bro- 
gan, a  divil  entirely.  And  it  was  the  fast  legs  that  I  had 
in  undher  me,  for  I  could  scoot  across  the  brae-face  like  a 
hare.  I  mind  once  and  me  so  wee,  when  me  Granny,  dead 
and  gone  this  many  a  long  year,  God  rest  her,  lifted  the 
birch  to  give  me  a  skelp  because  it  was  up  to  some  divilment 
that  I  was,  and  I  jouked  out  iv  her  reach  and  legged  it 
first  one  way  and  then  another  so  that  she  couldn't  lay  her 
hands  on  me,  and  me  only  two  years  ould  at  the  time. ' ' 

' '  But  about  this  sensational  disclosure  ? ' '  asked  Mr.  Bro- 
gan, his  curiosity  at  bursting-point. 

"I'm  comin'  to  that,  me  boy,  I'm  comin'  to  that  as  hard 
as  I  can,"  said  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  with  a  knowing  nod. 
"It's  a  great  bit  iv  news  entirely,  and  never  was  the  like 
iv  it  in  all  the  barony  and  for  the  matter  iv  that  in  all  the 
four  corners  iv  Ireland  itself.  Everybody's  talking  about 
it  and  sayin'  this  and  that  about  it  up  and  down  the  road 
every  night  iv  the  week  for  the  past  month.  When  we 
heard  it  in  me  own  house,  Biddy  herself  thanked  God  for 
it,  and  young  Norah,  me  daughter,  put  her  two  hands  to- 
gether like  this" — Coy  pressed  two  miry  palms  together, 
pressed  his  beard  with  his  fingers  and  looked  up  at  the  sky 
as  if  saying  his  prayers — "like  this,  and  says:  'To  every 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  21 

soul  its  due,  and  the  man  that  has  come  in  for  this  stroke 
iv  luck  deserves  it  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  whole 
world.'  " 

"But  who  was  the  fortunate  individual?"  Mr.  Brogan 
inquired,  feeling  that  Coy,  speaking  in  parenthesis  and 
allowing  digression  to  outrun  the  boundaries  of  the  matter 
in  hand,  would  never  get  to  the  pith  of  the  story. 

''Who  is  it,  ye  ask,  Mr.  Brogan?"  said  Coy,  catching 
the  questioner  again  by  the  hand.  "Who  is  it  that  has 
come  into  luck,  that  has  come  to  the  rainbow's  butt  and 
got  the  crock  iv  gold,  if  there's  a  crock  iv  gold  to  be  got 
there,  which  I  sadly  misdoubt?  I  mind  an  old  woman, 
named  Maura  Fargortha,  that  lived  on  the  other  side  iv 
Drimin  Cloghan  in  the  days  that  are  long  gone.  She  was 
called  Maura  Fargortha  because  she  was  so  thin  that  she 
was  nothin'  more  than  a  bag  iv  bones.  Some  said  it  was 
decline,  but  others  said  that  it  was  nothin'  more  or  less 
than  the  hunger  that  was  consumin'  all  the  oil  in  her  body 
and  her  wastin'.  Well,  this  Maura  one  day  took  the  notion 
into  her  head  that  she  would  set  out  over  the  hills  and 
go  to  the  butt  iv  the  rainbow  and  get  the  crock  iv  gold 
that  was  hid  there.  I  mind  her  settin'  out  on  the  journey 
and  me  not  more  than  three  at  the  time,  for  it's  the  great 
memory  that  I  have  entirely.  I  mind  it  as  well  as  yester- 
day and  me  comin'  close  on  sixty  now  with  three  sons  be 
the  wife  that  was,  Mary  Liam,  God  rest  her,  and  a  daugh- 
ter, Norah,  by  the  wife  that  is,  Bosha  Kelly.  It's  often 
that  the  two  iv  them  bees  asking  about  ye  now  and  won- 
derin'  how  you  were  getting  on  and  ye  away  across  the 
water  on  business.  It's  every  night  that  the  two  iv  them, 
when  down  on  their  knees,  sayin'  the  Paidreen,  finishes  up 
with  a  prayer  for  all  away  from  home,  not  forgettin'  Mr. 
Brogan,  the  next-door  neighbor.  And  Norah,  the  vaga- 
bone" — Coy  shook  his  head  in  mock  depreciation — "stays 
longer  on  her  knees  sayin'  a  prayer  for  your  safety  than 
she  would  for  any  one  else  at  all,  even  the  souls  that  are 
suffering  torments  in  the  flames  iv  purgatory.  And  what 
would  ye  think  the  age  of  Norah  would  be  now,  Mr.  Bro- 
gan?" asked  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh. 


22  MAUREEN 

""Well,  I  really  cannot  say,"  said  the  gallant  Mr.  Bro- 
gan, "but" — with  grandiloquent  courtesy — "whatever  her 
age  is,  she  doesn't  look  her  years." 

"That's  what  everybody  says,  even  Father  Dan,  and 
it's  often  he  passes  the  word  with  me  when  I  meet  him 
on  the  road,"  said  Coy  with  an  ingratiating  gesture  and 
the  look  of  a  man  who  has  made  a  good  stroke  of  diplomacy. 
"  'Twas  only  yesterday  that  I  met  his  reverence,  and  'Coy 
Beeragh,'  says  he,  'it's  a  long  while  now  since  I've  seen 
ye  at  all  and  it's  many  a  time  I  have  the  mind  to  go  up 
to  your  own  townland  and  visit  ye  to  have  a  talk  about 
old  times.' 

"  '  It 's  a  glad  man  that  I  'd  be  to  see  ye  in  my  wee  house, ' 
says  I.  'And  it's  a  good  cup  iv  tay  that  Norah  will  be 
able  to  set  in  front  iv  ye,  and  bread  the  like  iv  what  was 
never  baked,  and  butter  that  can't  be  made  in  any  house 
in  the  parish,  bar  me  own,  for  me  daughter  Norah  is  handy, 
both  at  the  churn  and  the  fryin'-pan.'  'She's  a  fine  girl 
and  all,  that  daughter  iv  yours,  Coy,'  says  he.  'I  saw  her 
yesterday  at  the  funeral  of  Tague  Meehal  Padraig,  God  rest 
him!'" 

"Old  Tague 's  dead  then;  deceased,"  Mr.  Brogan  ex- 
claimed, and  added,  ' '  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! ' ' 

' '  He  has  passed  away, ' '  said  Coy,  and  disclosed  the  won- 
derful secret  with  the  same  breath.  "He  has  passed  away 
and  left  his  holdin'  to  yerself,  Mr.  Brogan." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Brogan  was  silent.  He  stared  at  Coy 
Fergus  Beeragh,  his  mouth  stupidly  open  and  his  fingers 
twitching  as  if  on  the  point  of  clutching  at  something  that 
might  evade  his  grip.  Then  all  at  once  he  shook  himself 
and  casually  arranged  his  tie. 

"Is  it  true,  Mr.  Beeragh?"  he  asked,  his  tones  tinged 
with  a  shade  of  feigned  indifference,  his  mind  a  welter  of 
vague  possibilities. 

"May  I  fall  where  I  stand  if  there's  a  word  iv  lie  in 
what  I  say,"  Mr.  Beeragh  answered.  "The  will  is  in  the 
hands  iv  the  priest,  and  who  but  yerself  has  most  right 
to  the  holdin',  and  you  the  next  iv  kin  iv  Tague  Meehal 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  23 

Padraig  ?  And  the  right  dacent  man  he  was,  too.  I  mind 
once  and  that  was  many  a  long  year  back," — and  with 
much  wealth  of  detail  and  innate  tendency  to  stray  from 
the  straight  path  of  the  narrative  into  the  by-lanes  of  irrel- 
evancy, the  old  man  proceeded  to  relate  a  story  to  which 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  engrossed  in  a  calculation  of  the  value 
of  the  holding  of  his  late  uncle,  paid  not  the  slightest 
heed. 

Even  the  most  worthy  scholar  descends  at  times  from 
the  mount  of  learning  to  deal  a  little  in  ordinary  material 
business.  But  this  is  done  almost  unconsciously,  as  a 
poet  steps  into  a  midden  when  gazing  at  the  stars. 
Suddenly  Brogan  shook  himself,  righted  his  tie  and 
looked  at  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  who  was  now  deep  in  his 
story. 

"Was  the  demise  sudden?"  asked  Mr.  Brogan.  "The 
demise  of  my  worthy  relative?" 

"Tague  Meehal  Padraig,  ye  mane,"  said  Coy.  "  'Twas 
sudden,  God  rest  him !  He  was  a  hale  and  hearty  man  at 
the  shut  iv  one  day  and  gone  from  us  the  next.  The  two 
boys  that's  hired  on  him  went  to  their  work  in  the  mornin', 
and  not  a  hilt  or  hair  iv  smoke  did  they  see  rise  from  the 
chimney  at  all  till  it  was  noon.  Then  fearin'  the  worst 
they  went  up  to  the  door  and  in,  to  find  the  poor  man  lyin' 
dead  on  his  bed  with  his  trousers  on  and  the  cat  that  was 
in  the  house  lyin'  on  top  iv  him,  and  it  sleepin'.  Ye  mind 
the  cat,  one  like  your  own,  that  got  its  tail  cut  off  be  a 
scythe  when  it  kept  gaddin'  through  Sally  Rourke's  holm 
after  corn-crakes  the  harvest  two  years  ago?  It's  a  hard 
life  and  all,  when  an  old  man  dies  and  him  not  havin' 
chick  or  child  iv  his  own  to  look  after  him.  It's  married 
that  a  man  should  get  when  he  finds  himself  with  nobody 
at  all  in  his  house  and  the  holdin'  under  his  care,  a  big 
handlin',  not  for  one,  but  for  two  and  more'n  two.  A 
married  man  has  the  pull  iv  everybody  because  there's  a 
snug  drop  iv  tay  for  him  when  he  comes  in  from  his  work, 
and  his  stockin's  darned  and  his  trousers  patched  and  his 
home  kept  tidy.  A  strong  home  he  '11  have  and  a  bed  iv  com- 


24  MAUREEN 

fort,  for  is  it  not  an  old  sayin'  that  a  man  and  woman  is 
fit  to  make  any  bed  warm  in  the  coldest  weather?" 

"Sound  philosophy,"  said  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  who  by 
this  time  was  gradually  coming  to  realize  his  good  fortune. 
"Sound  philosophy,  Mr.  Beeragh,  sound  philosophy.  And 
what  about  a  drink,  a  slight  modicum  of  beverage  in  cele- 
bration of  the  event?  Let's  proceed  to  the  licensed  prem- 
ises of  Mr.  O'Ryan." 

"And  wet  our  whistles,  Mr.  Brogan,"  Coy  supplemented. 

The  two  men  went  up  the  village  street  together  and  en- 
tered the  licensed  premises  of  Mr.  O'Ryan,  where  Coy 
Beeragh  called  for  two  glasses  of  the  best.  These  were 
drunk  and  a  second  two  ordered,  then  a  third  two,  Coy  pay- 
ing for  all.  He  insisted  on  doing  this ;  it  was  only  a  friendly 
action,  heaping  the  honors  of  return  on  Mr.  Brogan.  Coy 
was  glad  to  see  Mr.  Brogan,  glad  to  be  the  first  to  tell  him 
of  his  good  fortune,  and  proud  to  be  the  neighbor  of  a 
man  who  had  come  into  his  own. 

Of  course  he  was  a  relation  of  Brogan 's,  far  out  it  was 
true,  but  still  a  relation.  If  it  were  traced  back  far  enough 
it  would  be  seen  that  both  were  of  the  same  stock  and  blood, 
far  out  of  course,  but  not  so  far  out.  Brogan 's  grandfather 
married  a  Beeragh,  and  Brogan 's  father,  a  decent  man  and 
all,  God  rest  him,  often  said  that  it  was  a  first-class  mingling 
of  blood,  the  Beeragh 's  and  the  Brogan 's,  as  could  be  seen 
to  the  present  day  by  looking  at  Mr.  Brogan,  a  fine  man 
and  scholar,  who  did  more  to  settle  disputes  than  the  law 
of  the  land.  From  this  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  with  the  skill 
of  a  peasant  diplomat,  launched  into  an  account  of  his 
own  family,  praising  all  the  members  of  it  in  turn,  not 
forgetting  his  daughter  Norah,  who  was  the  best  hand  in 
the  parish  at  baking  a  scone,  sewing  a  shirt,  and  knitting 
a  stocking. 

"An  exceptional  girl,  your  daughter  Norah,"  said  Mr. 
Brogan,  trying  to  get  a  word  in  edgeways,  for  all  the  talk- 
ing was  conducted  by  the  old  man. 

"That's  right,  sir,"  said  Coy  with  feeling.  "One  of 
the  best,  willin*  and  obligin*  and — have  another  deoch, 
Mr.  Brogan." 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  25 

"Delighted,"  said  Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  "But  it's  my 
turn  to  pay  for  the  modicum  now.  A  business  man  of  my 
standing  can't  allow  you  to  pay  for  it  all." 

Under  the  charm  of  the  good  news  and  the  influence  of 
the  liquor  for  which  Coy  paid,  Mr.  Brogan  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  meeting  with  Columb  Ruagh  on  the  Paisley 
free  coup. 

"It's  not  you  to  pay  for  a  drop  iv  this,"  said  Coy  Bee- 
ragh,  emphasis  in  his  voice.  "Some  other  time,  Mr.  Bro- 
gan, some  other  time,  but  not  now.  I  have  money,  too, 
Mr.  Brogan,  and  can  stand  a  wee  deoch  to  the  best  iv  them. 
Money!  I  have  lashin's  iv  it.  A  hundred  and  twenty 
gold  sovereigns  are  in  the  bank  for  Norah  the  day  that 
she  gets  the  ring  on  her  finger.  A  hundred  and  twenty 
gold  sovereigns,  which  shows  ye  that,  old  as  I  am,  I  am  a 
man  iv  substance. ' ' 

So  Coy  paid  for  the  two  glasses  and  for  several  which 
followed.  Not  that  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  would  not  have 
paid  if  he  had  been  allowed  the  opportunity,  but  the  old 
man  was  adamant  in  his  determination,  and  persistent  as 
well  as  prodigal  in  his  hospitality.  He  drank  glass  for 
glass,  speaking  all  the  time,  telling  one  incident  after  an- 
other with  all  the  garrulity  of  old  years,  forgetting  the 
threads  of  many  stories  and  drifting  into  others  as  easily 
as  a  flooded  stream,  coming  down  a  brae,  runs  into  a  mil- 
lion rivulets. 

At  half-past  seven  he  began  speaking,  his  hat  thrust  to 
the  back  of  his  head  and  one  elbow  leaning  on  the  counter 
of  the  public  house ;  at  eight,  the  hat  was  farther  back  and 
both  hands  thrust  into  his  trousers  pockets,  rattling  the 
loose  change  which  the  pockets  contained ;  at  half -past  eight 
he  was  sitting  down,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes  and  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat;  at  nine  he  was 
still  speaking,  incoherently  now,  of  Mr.  Brogan,  of  Tague 
Meehal  Padraig,  and  of  the  girl  Norah  with  her  dowry  of 
one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  money  down,  the  day 
she  got  the  ring.  He  was  now  lying  on  the  floor,  against 
the  wall,  pipe  in  one  hand,  an  empty  glass  in  the  other 
and  his  hat  missing. 


26  MAUREEN 

vn 

Though  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  had  succumbed  to  his  few 
glasses  of  the  best,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  younger  and 
stronger,  was  more  able  to  stand  the  influence  of  the  liquor. 
Buying  a  bottle  of  whisky,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket,  fixed  a 
puzzled  stare  on  the  fallen  Coy,  muttered  something  about 
the  hospitable  inebriate  and  made  his  way  out  into  the 
street  and  up  the  road  to  Meenaroodagh,  his  head  filled 
with  confused  thoughts  of  his  uncle 's  will,  his  own  business 
prospects,  and  last  but  not  least,  with  dreams  of  Norah 
Beeragh,  who  had  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  com- 
ing the  day  she  got  the  ring  on  her  finger. 

Mr.  Brogan,  it  must  be  admitted,  had  a  weak  spot  in 
his  heart  for  the  fair  sex,  and  he  had  been  in  love  with 
most  of  the  girls  in  the  parish  at  some  time  or  another, 
worshiping  them  from  a  distance,  it  is  true,  and  seldom 
bold  enough  to  get  into  closer  intimacy  with  them,  save 
when  under  the  influence  of  whisky.  But  in  matters  of 
the  heart  he  never  had  much  success.  Given  a  fair  field 
and  favor  in  matters  of  scholarly  import,  Mr.  Brogan  was 
denied  similar  latitude  when  it  came  to  the  field  of  love. 
Girls  would  speak  kindly  to  him  on  the  road  and  at  the 
market,  but  when  it  came  to  seeing  one  of  them  home  from 
a  dance  in  the  dark,  Mr.  Brogan  was  generally  denied  the 
opportunity.  In  tone,  outlook  and  sympathy,  he  was  too 
far  removed  from  them;  his  long  words  formed  a  barrier 
which  the  girls  feared.  They  didn't  understand  them.  So 
why  trouble  about  him  and  his  words  ?  Anyway  he  was  a 
plaisham,  looking  over  his  collar  like  a  donkey  over  a 
whitewashed  wall — so  the  girls  with  the  cruelty  of  their 
sex  declared.  And  catch  a  Dungarrow  girl  marrying  a 
plaisham  even  though  he  were  a  scholar. 

Taking  both  sides  of  the  road,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  made 
his  way  homeward,  but  when  he  came  to  a  house  by  the 
roadside,  the  house  of  Condy  Heelagh,  he  stopped  and 
went  inside.  Condy  was  the  Meenaroodagh  shoemaker 
and  cobbler,  a  talkative  man  with  a  stoop  due  to  long  lean- 
ing over  his  last,  a  wife,  Peggy  Ribbig,  and  five  daughters 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  27 

grown  up  and  unmarried.  Peggy,  a  born  matchmaker, 
though  unsuccessful  with  her  own  brood  as  yet,  was  pleased 
when  she  saw  Mr.  Brogan  enter,  and  more  pleased  when 
she  saw  him  stagger  from  the  doorway  to  the  center  of  the 
floor.  Peggy  Ribbig,  wise  in  her  faculty,  knew  that  a  little 
drink  often  opens  the  gate  to  many  possibilities. 

"Mr.  Heelagh,  congratulations,"  said  Eamon,  when  he 
entered.  "Congratulations!  Congratulations!  I  enter 
heir  to  the  estates  of  my  progenitors.  And  damsels  fair, 
I  salute  thee,"  he  said,  fixing  a  benign  and  maudlin  look 
on  the  five  daughters  of  Peggy  Ribbig.  These  girls  had 
been  sitting  on  the  floor  a  moment  before,  busy  with  their 
knitting,  but  now,  utterly  self-conscious,  with  their  do- 
mestic circle  invaded  by  the  collared  scholar,  they  were 
doing  up  their  blouses,  dressing  their  hair  and  setting 
the  odds  and  ends  of  the  house  in  order.  Condy  Heelagh 
got  to  his  feet,  his  pipe  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his  cap, 
and  gripped  Mr.  Brogan  by  the  hand. 

"Congratulations  to  yerself,  dacent  man,"  he  said 
warmly.  "It's  not  us  that  comes  in  for  congratulations 
this  tide,  but  yerself,  Mr.  Brogan,  that's  heir  to  the  estate 
iv  a  dacent  man,  as  the  sayin'  is,  and  we  all  wish  ye  luck 
in  yer  fortune.  Peggy  was  saying  to  me  but  yesterday 
that  if  any  man  in  the  parish  deserved  the  luck  iv  gettin* 
that  holdin'  it  was  yerself,  Mr.  Brogan.  Didn't  ye  now, 
Peggy?" 

"Indeed  and  I  did  that,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  the  good 
woman,  getting  the  hand  which  her  husband  had  released 
and  squeezing  it  tightly.  Not  alone  did  she  squeeze  it, 
but  report  has  it  that  she  raised  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed 
it.  "And  more  than  that,"  she  added  hastily,  entering 
into  the  business  which  she  saw  was  meet  for  the  occasion 
the  moment  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  entered  the  door,  "I  said 
that  here  ye  were  now,  a  man  with  land  and  stock  and 
money  to  spare  that  would  make  a  fine  home  for  any  woman 
in  the  land,  no  matter  who  she  was.  But  the  best  woman 
you  could  get,  Mr.  Brogan,  was  one  that  would  be  able  to 
do  the  work  iv  the  house  and  keep  it  snug  and  tidy.  That 
was  what  I  said,  wasn't  it  now,  Condy?" 


28  MAUREEN 

"Them  were  your  words,  Peggy,"  Condy  corroborated, 
though  feeling  that  his  good  wife  was  heading  far  too 
recklessly  into  the  marriage  question.  "Them  were  your 
words,  but  how  are  ye  at  all,  Mr.  Brogan?"  he  inquired, 
looking  at  the  visitor.  "Ye  haven't  changed  a  bit  since 
we  saw  ye  here  six  months  gone.  And  I  suppose  ye've 
been  hard  at  work  on  yer  business  all  the  time  since  then, 
making  yer  fortune  beyont  the  water.  But  a  man  with 
brains  to  get  to  the  top  all  the  time,  and  ye've  got  to  the 
top  at  home  and  abroad,  Mr.  Brogan,  and  good  luck  to 

ye." 

"Business  first,  Mr.  Heelagh,"  said  Eamon,  dismissing 
the  compliment  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and  sitting  down 
on  the  chair  nearest  him.  He  drew  the  full  bottle  from 
his  pocket  and  held  it  between  him  and  the  lamp  that  hung 
from  the  roof  beam,  closed  one  eye  and  surveyed  it  with 
the  other.  "Business  first  and  then  pleasure,"  he  added, 
holding  the  bottle  at  an  oblique  angle,  opening  the  shut 
eye,  then  closing  both.  "Business  first  and  pleasure  after- 
wards. Have  you  a  glass  in  your  possession,  Mr.  Heelagh, 
so  that  we  shall  partake  of  a  small  modicum  of  beverage  ? ' ' 

A  glass  was  procured,  filled  to  the  brim  and  emptied  by 
Condy  Heelagh.  Wiping  his  lips  he  took  his  pipe  from 
his  cap,  lit  it  and  handed  it  to  Eamon  na  Sgaddan. 

"It's  a  big  farm  that  ye've  come  into  now,  Mr.  Brogan," 
said  Condy  when  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  got  into  the  pull  of 
the  pipe  and  puffed  the  white  smoke  towards  the  ceiling. 
"And  if  there's  not  a  woman  to  help  you  now,  everything 
will  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  It  takes  a  woman  to  look  after 
the  hens  and  ducks  and  feed  the  calves  and  milk  the 
cows. ' ' 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Eamon  with  a  sigh,  his  thoughts 
taking  a  melancholy  turn. 

"True  for  ye,  that  it  is,"  said  Condy  with  an  accom- 
panying sigh.  "And  it's  bad  for  a  man  to  be  left  his  lone 
with  not  a  one  to  make  his  bit  iv  breakfast  in  the  mornin' 
or  to  sew  a  button  on  his  shirt  or  put  a  patch  on  his 
trousers  (not  that  ye'd  ever  need  to  wear  trousers  with 
patches  on  them,  Mr.  Brogan),  or  try  the  ducks  and  hens 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  29 

at  night.  It's  a  sin  to  be  livin'  and  no  woman  in  the  house, 
Mr.  Brogan." 

"It  is  that,  and  for  a  man  iv  substance,  too,"  said  Peggy 
Ribbig,  sorting  her  matronly  hams  on  the  hassog  and  tak- 
ing up  her  knitting.  "It's  a  woman  ye'd  make  fine  and 
soncy  on  it,  Mr.  Brogan,  a  man  like  yerself,  that  hasn't  yer 
heart  in  the  penny  piece." 

"And  ye '11  be  havin'  a  drop  of  this,  too,"  said  Eamon, 
suddenly  realizing  that  he  had  forgotten  Peggy,  and  filling 
the  glass  again.  "It's  prime  stuff,  Mrs.  Heelagh." 

"That'll  do,  that'll  do  now,"  said  Peggy,  as  Mr.  Brogan 
filled  the  glass  to  the  brim.  "It'll  be  making  me  funny  in 
me  head  if  I  drink  all  that." 

She  took  the  glass,  sipped  it,  puckered  her  lips  and  made 
a  wry  face.  This  of  course  was  a  mere  feminine  formality, 
for  she  drank  it  to  the  final  trickle. 

"It's  not  often  I  get  a  sup,"  said  Peggy.    "But  that!" 

She  spoke  as  one  who,  though  not  a  judge  of  whisky,  had 
still  sufficient  discrimination  to  realize  that  the  glass  filled 
by  Mr.  Brogan  contained  special  properties. 

"Aye!"  said  Condy  Heelagh,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  knows  what  whisky  is  but  never  tasted  anything  bet- 
ter than  that  which  he  had  just  drunk. 

The  five  daughters  looked  at  Condy,  at  Peggy  Ribbig, 
then  at  Eamon,  and  then  at  one  another.  Finally  the  eyes 
of  four  rested  on  Biddy,  who  was  the  eldest,  and  on  the 
face  of  Biddy  shone  a  look  of  hope. 

"Biddy,  what  are  ye  doin',  not  thinkin'  about  it?"  said 
Peggy,  looking  at  her  eldest  daughter.  "Put  the  taypot  on 
the  fire,  will  ye,  and  give  Mr.  Brogan  a  drop  iv  tay  to 
warm  himself  afore  he's  half  froze  with  the  cold  wind 
that's  coming  in  under  the  door." 

"My  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Heelagh,  but  it's  not  a  modicum 
of  tea  I  want  to-night,"  said  Eamon,  putting  the  bottle 
back  in  his  pocket  and  handing  the  pipe  to  Condy  Heelagh. 
"I'll  proceed  homewards  and  slumber  till  dawn." 

He  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the  door. 
Standing  there  for  a  moment  he  looked  back,  his  face  twist- 
ing in  an  inane  and  tipsy  grin. 


30  MAUREEN 

"It's  a  poor  house  without  a  woman,  Mrs.  Heelagh," 
he  hiccoughed.  "But  probably  it's  as  bad  when  there's 
a  surplus  of  the  sex  in  residence." 

The  household  laughed  uneasily.  Eamon  was  drunk  and 
might  say  anything  now.  The  shoemaker's  daughters  were 
all  of  marrying  age,  but  were  denied  good  looks. 

"Watch  yerself  goin'  home,  anyway,"  said  Condy  in  an 
effort  to  turn  Eamon 's  thoughts  in  another  direction. 
"Ye 're  passin'  the  house  iv  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  and  she 
may  come  after  ye  with  the  stick." 

"Not  on  my  tracks,  Mr.  Heelagh,"  said  Eamon  pot- 
valiantly,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  taking  the  bottle 
from  his  pocket.  He  looked  steadfastly  at  it  for  a  moment, 
then  put  it  back  again.  "Not  with  a  stick,  anyway,"  he 
said,  as  if  that  particular  point  was  clear  anyhow. 

"He  has  a  high  opinion  iv  himself,"  whispered  Biddy 
to  her  sisters.  "It's  funny  the  way  that  drink  puts  the 
notions  into  a  man's  head." 

"Not  with  a  stick,"  Eamon  repeated.  "If  it's  after  me 
she  comes,  it  won't  be  with  a  stick,  I'll  go  bail.  A  stick! 
Not  after  me  with  a  stick !  A  stick !  A  cudgel !  A  wand ! 
But  not  after  me  that  could  buy  her  and  her  ould  mother 
at  any  market.  I'll  go  up  to  her  very  door  and  see  what 
she'll  say  to  me,  the  same  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal!" 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  in  yer  shoes,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said 
Condy  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  ' '  She 's  a  hussy,  the 
same  girl,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  There's  nothin'  that  she's  not 
up  to.  I've  seen  her  set  to  mow  a  field,  that  one  behind 
her  house,  and  with  hobeen  and  gibeen  it's  a  job  that  few 
men  would  care  to  tackle.  But  my  bould  Maureen  went 
for  it  and  done  it  just  like  a  man." 

"It's  not  a  woman  that  she  is  but  a  man,"  said  Peggy 
Ribbig,  drawing  a  snuffbox  from  her  breast  and  putting 
the  snuff  to  her  nose. 

"Well,  let  her  be  whatever  she  is,  I'm  going  there  to  see 
her  to-night,"  said  Eamon,  whose  mood  now  took  a  reck- 
less turn.  "And  not  alone  will  go  and  see  her,  but  I'll  ask 
her  to  share  me  house  and  home  with  me." 

The  faces  of  the  listeners  lengthened.     Peggy  Ribbig 


BAMON  NA  SGADDAN  31 

dropped  her  snuffbox  to  the  floor,  spilling  the  snuff.  The 
girls  looked  at  one  another,  and  Hannah,  the  youngest  and 
not  the  ugliest,  tittered.  Condy  took  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  spat  in  the  bowl  and  pressed  the  wet  ash  in  with 
his  finger. 

"A  stick!"  laughed  Mr.  Brogan,  opening  the  door  and 
edging  out  sideways.  "A  stick!  A  cudgel!  A  wand!" 
he  repeated,  when  nothing  of  him  could  be  seen  save  one 
shoulder. 

He  went  out.  An  unsteady  step  could  be  heard  in  the 
darkness  as  Eamon  made  his  way  across  the  street,  then 
a  voice  roared. 

"Run  after  me!  Not  with  a  stick,  a  cudgel  or  a  wand, 
anyway ! ' ' 

"Poor  Eamon,"  said  Condy,  looking  at  Peggy  Ribbig. 
"It's  drink  in  and  senses  out  with  him." 

"The  divil  fly  away  with  him  and  his  capers!"  said 
Peggy  angrily.  "I've  spilt  all  me  snuff.  Come,  Hannah, 
and  pick  it  up,  ye  gawmy.  Sittin'  there  laughin'  like  a 
plaisham ! ' ' 

"I'm  not  laughin'  like  a  plaisham,  ma,  and  I'm  not  the 
only  plaisham  in  the  house  if  I  am  one,  either,"  said  the 
girl  tartly. 

"There's  no  one  in  the  house  as  big  a  plaisham  as  ye 
are,  Hannah,"  said  Biddy,  secretly  annoyed  at  her  own 
hopes  of  a  moment  before,  and  doubly  annoyed  because 
she  knew  that  those  hopes  were  no  secret  to  her  younger 
sisters. 

Condy  looked  round  at  the  girls,  coughed  and  spat  on 
the  floor. 

"Can  ye  not  be  quiet  one  minute,  day  or  night?"  he  said 
angrily.  "Ye  are  always  going  for  one  another  like  cats 
and  dogs.  Be  quiet,  won't  yees,  if  ye've  nothin'  better 
to  do." 

The  house  was  surprised  at  the  father's  remark.  He 
was  always  a  very  meek  man  and  never  interfered  in  do- 
mestic matters. 

"And  if  ye've  nothin'  better  to  do,"  he  went  on,  wrin- 
kles of  quiet  cunning  marshaling  themselves  round  his 


32  MAUREEN 

eyes,  "why  doesn't  one  iv  ye  go  out  and  see  Eamon  home 
across  the  brae?  He's  taken  a  drop  too  much,  and  maybe 
it 's  f  allin '  into  a  sheuch  that  he  '11  be  in  the  dark. ' ' 

"That's  right,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig  in  a  voice  of  ap- 
proval. ' '  Run  away  out,  one  iv  ye,  and  see  the  dacent  man 
home.  Him  after  comin'  back  from  foreign  parts  and 
left  to  himself  to  go  across  the  braes  in  the  dark  after 
takin'  a  drop  too  much  and  it  in  his  head!" 

"Well,  I'm  not  goin',"  said  Eveleen,  the  second  daugh- 
ter. 

"Nor  am  I,"  said  Anne,  the  third  daughter. 

"The  poor  plaisham,"  said  the  fourth  daughter,  Mary, 
contempt  in  her  voice. 

' '  Catch  me  goin '  outside  the  door  a  night  like  this, ' '  said 
Hannah. 

The  field  was  clear  for  Biddy,  the  eldest  and  ugliest. 

"Feeard,  indeed,"  said  Biddy,  puckering  up  her  nose 
and  looking  at  Hannah.  "I'm  not  feeard,  but  that  and 
all  I'm  not  goin'  to  see  the  old  plaisham  home  because  he's 
drunk." 

"Ye 're  as  feeard  as  the  rest  iv  them,"  said  the  astute 
Peggy,  who  knew  that  Biddy,  though  indifferent  to  the 
terrors  of  the  night,  dreaded  the  jibes  of  her  sisters.  This 
doubt  cast  on  the  girl's  pluck  was  a  goad  to  urge  her  to- 
wards a  certain  course  of  action,  and  the  mother's  diplo- 
macy was  welcome  to  Biddy.  She  would  now  have  an  ex- 
cuse to  do  what  she  desired.  There  was  still  hope. 

"Just  to  show  ye  all  that  I'm  not  afeeard!"  she  said, 
taking  a  shawl  from  the  peg  behind  the  door  and  wrapping 
it  round  her  shoulders.  Then  without  another  word  she 
went  out  and  followed  Mr.  Brogan. 

vm 

The  night  was  very  dark,  a  mist  lay  on  the  holms  and 
from  the  near  hills  came  the  rumbling  sounds  of  water 
tumbling  over  the  rocks.  Here  and  there  faint  lights  flick- 
ered timidly,  now  dying  away  and  again  bursting  out  with 
unwonted  brilliancy. 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  33 

"Micky  Cosdhu's  lamp  and  it  always  as  if  it  is  goin' 
out  with  the  soot  on  the  globe ! ' '  said  Biddy  mechanically 
as  she  ran,  her  bare  feet  pattering  on  the  dry  roadway. 
"Peadar  Fasha's  light  through  the  old  blind!  Leggy 
O'Donnel's  light  and  she  so  early  in  bed  always.  That's 
Eamon's  talk  I  hear.  He's  speakin'  to  himself.  Maybe 
it's  lyin'  down  be  the  road  that  he  is  and  goin'  to  sleep. 
It  will  be  a  death  iv  cold  that  he's  gettin',  the  poor  plai- 
sham. ' ' 

A  motherly  feeling  was  roused  in  the  girl.  She  felt  her- 
self a  protector  of  the  kinless  home  from  foreign  parts. 
He  should  have  some  one  to  take  care  of  him  now,  seeing 
that  he  had  such  a  holding  in  his  charge.  Of  course  by 
"some  one"  Biddy  Heelagh  meant  herself. 

She  found  him  sitting  by  the  roadside,  his  head  sunk 
down  on  his  white  dickie,  his  back  thrust  against  a  bank 
and  his  legs  stretched  out  in  front  of  him  to  their  full 
extent. 

"It  it  goin'  to  sleep  here  that  ye  are,  Mr.  Brogan?" 
Biddy  asked,  touching  the  man  on  the  shoulder  and  nudg- 
ing him  gently. 

"A  stick,  a  cudgel  or  a  wand!"  mumbled  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan. 

"It's  cold  for  ye  lyin'  here  all  be  yerself,  Mr.  Brogan," 
said  Biddy.  "Get  up  and  come  away  home  with  me." 

"Whose  home?  What  home?"  asked  Eamon  without 
opening  his  eyes.  "Whose  home  and  what  home?  .  .  . 
The  estate  of  my  progenitors.  The  ancestral  halls  and  two 
hundred  pounds  her  portion  when  the  ring's  on  her  finger. 
Mr.  Heelagh.  ...  A  stick !  A  cudgel !  or  a  wand ! ' ' 

"Get  up,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  Biddy,  catching  the  man 
by  both  shoulders  and  firmly  shaking  him.  He  opened 
his  eyes,  rubbed  them  and  looked  at  Biddy. 

"Damsel  fair,  I  salute  thee,"  he  said.  "My  heart  is 
yours!" 

"Get  up,  Mr.  Brogan,  will  ye  now,"  Biddy  entreated. 
"It's  yer  death  iv  cold  that  ye '11  get  lyin'  here  on  a  night 
like  this." 

"I  arise,"  said  Mr.  Brogan,  getting  to  his  feet  and 


34  MAUREEN 

clasping  Biddy  Heelagh's  hand  with  both  his  own.  "I 
arise,  so  lead  the  way  and  I  follow  thee,  fair  charmer." 

What  ensued  is  fully  known  in  every  specific  item  and 
particular  detail  to  the  Dungarrow  folk  down  to  this  very 
day.  Some  youngsters,  it  appears,  heard  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Brogan  from  the  roadside,  and  these  rascals,  crawling 
through  the  fields  and  skirting  the  laneways  on  the  heels 
of  the  pair,  fair  Biddy  and  the  man  whom  she  chaperoned, 
overheard  their  conversation  and  followed  the  developments 
of  the  evening  with  interest. 

In  the  first  place  Biddy  urged  Eamon  to  come  back 
with  her  to  her  own  house  where  there  was  a  good  fire  and 
where  he  could  sleep  in  comfort  through  the  night.  Mr. 
Brogan  assented,  saying  that  it  was  an  honor  to  follow  in 
the  footsteps  of  the  fair  and  charming  towards  a  haven 
of  security.  But  when  near  the  shoemaker's  home  he 
altered  his  mind  and  said  that  he  really  wanted  to  go  back 
and  proceed  in  state  to  the  home  of  his  progenitors.  Biddy 
was  loth  to  allow  him  to  return  to  his  home,  which,  though 
the  house  of  his  progenitors,  had  not  been  warmed  by  a  fire 
since  he  left  it  on  business  six  months  ago.  Eamon  was, 
however,  obdurate,  and  as  token  of  his  inflexibility  of 
purpose  he  ceased  calling  Biddy  his  Fair  and  Charming. 
She  dropped  from  her  pedestal  and  became  plain  Miss 
Heelagh. 

"In  fact,  Miss  Heelagh,  if  I  am  not  allowed  to  return 
to  the  home  of  my  progenitors,"  he  said  querulously,  "I'll 
lie  down  by  the  roadway  and  slumber  there  under  the 
canopy  of  heaven. ' ' 

"Give  in  to  him,  Biddy,  ye  plaisham  ye,  give  in  to  him," 
came  a  whisper  from  the  roadside  at  this  juncture.  "Give 
in  to  him,  Biddy,  and  it  will  be  for  the  best." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Peggy  Eibbig,  who  was  secretly  fol- 
lowing the  developments  of  the  evening. 

Biddy  gave  in ;  the  pair  left  the  roadway  and  took  their 
way  along  the  boreen  that  led  to  Eamon 's  home.  This 
lane  was  very  narrow,  so  narrow  that  it  was  almost  im- 
possible for  two  to  move  abreast  without  touching  arms. 
In  fact,  arms  touched  and  interlocked  and  in  this  stage 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  35 

of  intimacy  Biddy  was  no  longer  the  Fair  or  the  Charmer 
or  Miss  Heelagh.  She  had  become  "My  darling,"  and 
"My  wee  love."  When  Peggy  Eibbig,  who  despite  her 
age  had  ears  that  could  hear  grass  growing,  heard  Mr. 
Brogan  address  her  daughter  in  such  a  manner,  she  turned 
back  with  the  good  news  to  her  man  Condy  Heelagh,  the 
cobbler. 

It  was  at  the  turn  of  the  lane,  when  Eamon  saw  a  light 
through  a  window-blind,  that  the  calamity  occurred. 

It  was  an  ordinary,  everyday  calamity,  which  might  over- 
take any  man,  be  he  a  scholar  or  a  plaisham.  Some  person 
has  said,  a  Dungarrow  man  probably,  that  a  slate  may  fall 
on  any  man's  head.  This  implies  that  none  is  safe  from 
the  buffs  of  misfortune,  accidental  mishaps,  untoward  hard- 
ships, those  wasps  that  sting  human  beings  when  they 
pluck  a  nosegay  in  a  field  of  flowers.  These  checks  and 
crosses  wait  man  at  every  corner,  infinitesimal  in  them- 
selves probably,  but  bearing  the  seeds  of  incipient  heart- 
ache. The  Dungarrow  folk  are  conscious  of  the  truth  of 
this,  as  witness  their  proverbs: 

A  thin  rope  breaks  a  giant's  neck. 

A  lash  in  the  eye  blinds  a  sailor. 

A  doncy  linch-pin  takes  heart  from  the  biggest  cart. 

Mr.  Brogan  knew  these  sayings,  and  in  after  years  when 
Fate,  like  a  master  that  thrashes  an  idle  scholar,  lashed 
Eamon  in  a  ditch,  where  counsel  could  not  solace  nor 
wisdom  avail,  he  regretted  the  lesson  he  did  not  learn. 
Now,  as  he  stood  at  the  turn  of  the  boreen,  the  wheel  of 
his  life  swung  on  a  fatal  pivot,  the  blind  that  hung  on 
the  window  of  the  house  of  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal.  For  a 
moment,  with  his  arm  round  the  waist  of  Biddy  Heelagh, 
he  looked  at  it.  Then  he  released  his  grip. 

"A  stick,  a  cudgel,  a  wand,"  he  muttered.  "A  stick, 
a  cudgel  and  a  wand !  I  must  pay  my  compliments  to  Miss 
Meehal." 

He  crawled  over  an  adjoining  dyke,  despite  the  efforts 
of  Biddy  to  detain  him. 

"Farewell,  darling,  farewell!"  he  muttered,  without 
turning  round.  "My  Fate  ordains  it  and  I  go!" 


36  MAUREEN 

Biddy,  in  the  desperation  that  defies  Fate,  followed  him, 
clutched  him  by  the  sleeve,  entreated  him  to  come  home, 
but  all  to  no  avail.  He  was  going  to  pay  his  compliments 
to  Miss  Meehal,  and  his  wishes  were  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

"Farewell,  Miss  Heelagh!  Farewell!"  he  said  with  a 
grandiloquent  gesture  and  thrust  her  gently  aside.  Then 
he  made  for  the  house  of  Cassie  Meehal,  and  a  moment 
later  Biddy  heard  him  knocking  on  the  door. 

"The  dirty  plaisham,"  groaned  the  girl.  "Eamon  na 
Sgaddan!  Business  man!  A  collar  on  his  neck  when  he 
is  here  at  home,  and  a  red  shirt  with  a  graip  on  a  dung- 
cart  when  he's  beyont  the  water!  May  the  seven  curses 
iv  the  divil  be  after  him  all  his  life,  the  omadhaun !  Him 
and  his  white  collar  and  tie!" 

So  the  young  rascals  who  lay  in  the  shadows  of  the  lane- 
way  declared,  which  may  be  true.  But  the  story  which 
went  up  and  down  the  parish  of  how  she  cried  herself  to 
sleep  that  night  can  hardly  be  vouched  for.  If  she  cried 
she  would  do  so  quietly,  for  Biddy  was  a  very  close  girl, 
who  did  not  wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve.  If  she  cried 
quietly  those  who  listened  at  the  window  that  night  would 
certainly  not  know  the  manner  in  which  Biddy  expressed 
the  anguish  of  her  soul. 

And  Mr.  Brogan!  Suffice  to  say  that  Eveleen  Meehal, 
Cassie 's  mother,  old  and  skinny  and  deaf,  opened  the  door 
and  let  him  in.  Eveleen 's  daughter,  Cassie,  could  be 
seen  shaking  his  hand  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Then 
the  door  closed  on  Mr.  Brogan,  the  only  man  who  had  en- 
tered that  house  since  Shemus  Meehal  died  two  years  before. 
Cassie  had  no  use  for  men.  She  was  a  man  herself  if 
one  can  judge  a  human  being  by  force  of  character  and 
strength  of  body.  It  was  said  that  she  was  as  strong  as  a 
•creel-rest.  Whether  this  was  so  or  not  is  a  matter  of  doubt, 
but  the  woman  before  and  after  her  marriage  could  carry 
a  creel  of  turf  which  few  full-grown  men  would  care  to 
shoulder.  She  would  also  take  her  place  with  the  best  of 
them  at  cutting  a  meadow  or  setting  a  ridge  of  potatoes. 

But  she  was  a  very  handsome  girl  and  had  more  than 
one  offer  for  her  hand.  These  offers  she  refused  in  a 


EAMON  NA  SGADDAN  37 

manner  peculiarly  her  own.  "Want  to  marry  me,  do  ye?" 
she  was  known  to  say  to  a  claimant.  "It's  a  man  that 
I'm  wantin'  when  I  take  it  into  me  head  to  marry,"  she 
added,  "and  not  somethin'  that  ye  can  hang  over  a  crook 
like  a  wet  rag!" 

But  she  did  not  chase  Mr.  Brogan  away  with  a  cudgel 
that  night.  In  fact,  he  did  not  leave  her  house  till  the 
next  morning.  A  week  later  there  was  a  marriage  in  the 
parish  church  of  Dungarrow.  The  happy  pair  were  Mr. 
Brogan  and  Gassie  Shemus  Meehal. 


FIBHIN' 

Now,  vfho  would  ye  be  at  the  dark  iv  night 
That  comes  to  the  door  and  raps  that  way, 
And  fright'nin'  me  be  the  fire  me  lone, 
And  him  at  his  work  on  Gweebarra  Bay, 

Fishin' t 

Him  at  his  work  and  me  in  the  house, 
With  a  league  iv  water  between  us  two — 
Cold  and  black  on  me  childre  dead, 
And  drowned  were  the  two  iv  them,  Micky  and  Hugh, 

Fishin'. 

It's  work  for  the  two  iv  us;  him  at  the  turf 
When  the  weather  is  warm,  or  else  the  kelp, 
And  it's  knittm'  for  me  when  he  bees  out 
At  night  on  the  sea  with  no  one  to  help, 

Fishin'. 

'Twos  yerself  be  the  door,  was  itf    All  the  time! 
And  there's  fear  in  yer  eyes  and  yer  face  is  white — 
Himself  it  is!    Drowned!    Oh!    Mother  iv  God! 
Look  down  upon  me  from  above  this  night! 

Fishin'. 


39 


CHAPTER  II 

CASSEE  SHEMUS  MEEHAIJ 


ALL-HALLOWS  EVE  of  the  year  in  which  Mr.  Bro- 
gan  married  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  saw  many  events 
of  note  and  import  take  place  in  the  parish  of  Dun- 
garrow.     The  year  in  itself  was  one  of  strange  incidents 
and  peculiar  happenings,  so  remote  from   the   ordinary 
tenor  of  things  that  many  old  people  said  it  was  a  sign 
of  the  coming  end  of  the  world. 

It  was  on  the  Candlemas  Day  of  that  year  that  Hudagh. 
Nelly  Wor  died  while  letting  ropes  for  the  thatching  of  a 
neighbor 's  house.  He  was  just  winding  the  last  rope  round 
a  cloo  when  he  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  said :  ' '  It 's  the 
sickness  that  has  got  its  hold  on  me.  Run  for  the  priest.'* 

The  boy  with  the  trahook  dropped  it,  ran  to  the  priest 
and  told  him  that  the  sickness  was  on  Hudagh  Nelly.  The 
priest,  an  old  man  (he  died  a  fortnight  after  this  event) 
with  white  hair  and  a  stoop  in  his  back,  got  on  his  horse 
and  arrived  just  in  time  to  pour  the  Holy  Oil  on  Hudagh 
before  the  old  man  passed  away.  His  death  was  peaceful, 
his  age  a  hundred  and  two,  and  despite  his  years  the  best 
letter  of  ropes,  hay  or  straw,  in  the  parish.  The  year  in 
which  Hudagh  Nelly  Wor  died  is  even  to  this  day  fixed 
as  a  local  date  amongst  the  elderly  people  of  the  parish. 

Six  months  following  this  occurrence  another  death  took 
place  in  the  parish,  in  the  townland  of  Drimeeney,  the 
rugous  strip  of  country  bordering  the  sea  and  an  assembly- 
ground  for  burdock,  bocken  and  byssus,  the  first  occupying 
the  level  fields,  the  second  sheltering  in  the  lanes,  and  the 

41 


42  MAUREEN 

third  spreading  its  silky  filaments  on  the  rocks  of  Gweenora 
Bay. 

It  was  in  this  bay  that  death  overtook  Searlas  Dhu 
O'Friel,  the  young  man  who  once  met  Eamon  na  Sgaddan 
on  the  Deny  boat.  Full  of  tricks  and  capers,  with  folly 
in  his  feet  and  head,  and  an  eye  for  the  girls,  his  untimely 
end  (he  dropped  from  a  coracle  when  fishing  in  Gweenora 
Bay)  was  considered  in  some  measure  meet  for  the  boy. 
"We  knew  that  he  would  come  to  a  bad  end,"  said  the  wise- 
acres. "We  always  said  it  and  now  lookit!" 

Again  this  year  had  its  Big  Flood  and  Big  Wind.  The 
former  was  one  of  the  most  violent  known  in  the  parish. 
It  rained  for  fifteen  hours  without  ease  or  respite;  the 
countryside  became  a  lake,  and  as  it  was  the  harvest-time 
with  trampcocks  in  the  holms,  stooks  of  corn  on  the  stubble 
land  and  potatoes  doing  well  on  the  braes,  the  flood  was 
a  calamity  to  the  natives.  Corn  and  hay  was  carried  away 
in  the  river  from  Crinnan  to  Stranarachary,  where  it  stuck 
in  the  eye  of  the  village  bridge.  Here  the  water,  impeded 
in  its  flow,  rose  to  the  street,  flooding  shops  and  houses, 
and  causing  great  damage. 

Neddy  Tight  Fist  (every  man  has  his  nickname  in  Dun- 
garrow)  lost  meal,  flour  and  groceries  to  the  extent  of  fifty 
pounds;  the  draper,  Fergus  Famine  Guts,  lost  even  more 
heavily,  for  the  river  rose  so  quickly  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  get  bales  of  cloth,  dainty  articles  of  linen  ware, 
shirts,  petticoats,  aprons,  blouses  and  stockings  out  of  the 
way  of  the  waters  before  they  topped  counters  and  lower 
shelves  and  settled  themselves  in  ground  floor  and  base- 
ment. In  the  village  twenty  cows  were  drowned;  pigs, 
sows  and  litters  of  suckers  were  carried  away  by  the  river. 
Even  up  towards  Crinnan  where  the  water  ran  from  the 
hills  the  losses  were  severe.  Sheep  were  washed  away  by 
the  roaring  brooks,  cattle  drowned,  and  crops  on  the  braes 
carried  away.  For  a  fortnight  afterwards  on  the  river 
banks  where  the  river  Owenaruddagh  made  its  way  to  the 
sea  the  stock  and  substance  of  the  parish  people  and  the 
people  of  Stranarachary  could  be  seen  rotting  on  the  silty 
broughs. 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  43 

Then  when  the  river  had  sunk  to  its  normal  level  came 
the  Big  Wind.  It  arose  one  night  when  the  people  had 
gone  to  bed.  Their  hay  and  corn,  what  remained,  was 
drawn  up  to  the  high  land  safe  from  further  incursions  of 
the  river.  The  cornfields  were  then  all  cut  down  and 
every  farm  had  its  lines  of  sheaves,  rows  of  stooks,  and 
fat-girthed,  pompous  stacks  that  gave  testimony  to  the  sea- 
son's  yield. 

The  wind  rose  suddenly,  whirled  down  from  the  hills, 
overthrowing  all  the  stooks,  upending  the  cornstacks  and 
trampcocks,  playing  havoc  with  the  thatched  homes,  and 
stripping  two  out  of  every  three  clean  to  the  rafters.  The 
National  School  in  the  townland  of  Meenaroodagh  was  shed 
of  its  slates,  trees  were  dragged  root-clear  from  the  ground, 
cans  and  buckets,  creels  and  baskets  were  carried  away 
by  the  storm,  some  of  them  lost  for  ever,  and  others,  when 
found,  not  worth  the  trouble  of  picking  up.  Never  was 
such  a  gale  known  in  the  parish,  and  the  memory  of  it  is 
fresh  even  to  this  very  day. 

On  the  morning  following,  Liam  Logan  found  that  all 
his  hay,  the  result  of  three  days'  heavy  mowing,  was  gone. 
Not  a  strand  was  left;  the  brae  on  which  it  had  lain  was 
as  bare  as  the  sole  of  a  foot  that  leaves  the  wash-tub.  Andy 
Boyle's  house  was  set  on  fire  and  burned  to  the  ground; 
his  two  cows,  one  newly  calved  and  one  coming,  perishing 
in  the  flames. 

"It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  good  for  nobody,"  it  is 
said,  and  even  this  wind  justified  the  proverb.  Teague 
Doherty,  a  man  of  money  and  owner  of  a  well-stocked 
farm  that  lay  in  a  little  valley  or  pocket  that  ran  down 
from  the  braes  of  Arlishmore,  gained  good  from  the  wind, 
for  the  hay  that  was  blown  from  the  face  of  other  farms 
had  to  fall  somewhere,  and  most  of  it  fell  in  the  groin 
of  Arlishmore  and  became  the  property  of  Teague 
Doherty. 

Of  course  to  people  who  do  not  live  in  Dungarrow  these 
incidents  are  not  of  great  concern.  That  a  cow  is  drowned, 
a  trampcock  carried  away  by  a  flood,  a  house  burned  to 
the  ground,  that  a  man  dies  calmly  at  the  age  of  five-score- 


44  MAUREEN 

and-two  or  unshriven  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  are  not 
matters  to  excite  much  comment  beyond  the  parish  bound- 
aries. Things  of  greater  moment  happen  farther  afield 
every  hour  of  the  day  and  seldom  call  for  newspaper  space. 
But  in  Dungarrow  it  is  a  different  matter.  Trifling  things, 
such  as  those  recorded  here,  make  the  life  of  the  peasantry 
and  even  add  spice  to  the  drab  routine  of  their  daily 
lives. 

A  new  blind  on  a  window  is  even  noticed  in  Dungarrow. 
One  house  had  a  red  blind  in  the  window,  and  without  be- 
ing removed  it  kept  an  honored  position  there  for  twenty- 
five  years.  "When  it  wore  a  little  and  rents  showed  in  the 
fabric  it  was  sewn  together.  When  a  hole  appeared,  it 
was  patched  up  with  cloth  of  the  same  color,  a  strip  from 
a  bawna  brockagh  petticoat  or  a  square  from  a  woolen 
cross-over.  There  were  three  girls  in  the  house,  comely 
wenches,  and  when  these  grew  up  the  boys  of  the  place  got 
into  the  habit  of  choosing  the  house  as  a  place  for  a  night 's 
raking.  A  favorite  trick  of  these  young  fellows  was  to 
slyly  cut  a  little  piece  from  the  blind  so  that  on  the  night 
following  they  would  have  a  peephole  to  look  in  from  the 
outside.  The  woman  of  the  house  on  noticing  the  aperture 
always  repaired  the  blind.  It  could  go  to  rack  and  ruin 
seemingly  for  all  that  the  young  girls  cared.  In  fact  it 
was  rumored  that  they  themselves  often  lent  a  hand  in 
the  snipping  of  the  fabric. 

In  the  course  of  time  two  of  the  girls  got  married.  They 
made  good  matches.  One  girl  remained,  the  youngest, 
with  her  father  and  mother  and  the  torn  blind.  One  day 
she  got  a  man  who  came  and  lived  in  her  house  and  had 
the  farm  signed  over  to  him.  On  the  day  after  the  wed- 
ding the  blind  was  taken  down  and  a  new  one  substituted, 
this  little  repair  in  household  decoration  requiring  as  pre- 
liminaries three  marriages  and  the  signing  over  of  a  farm. 
The  new  blind  was  a  white  one.  It  took  the  dust  easily 
and  lasted  for  a  mere  eighteen  months.  This  blind  was 
taken  down  on  the  year  of  which  we  speak,  the  Year  of 
the  Big  Flood,  the  Big  Wind,  the  death  of  Hudagh  Nelly 
Wor  and  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel.  But  none  of  these  is  the 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  45 

important  event,  the  one  which  is  to  be  spoken  of  in  de- 
tail and  without  which  thie  story  would  never  be  written. 

ii 

It  was  the  Eve  of  Hallowmass;  with  the  boys  of  Dun- 
garrow  cutting  cabbage-heads  and  throwing  them  against 
their  neighbors'  doors  and  the  girls  of  the  barony  on  the 
look-out  for  future  husbands,  for  on  Hall'eve  night  such 
a  privilege  is  granted  to  young  maidens,  who  perform 
various  rites  sanctified  by  ancient  custom  and  proved  in- 
fallible by  modern  experience. 

Some  went  alone  into  darkened  rooms,  looked  into  mir- 
rors and  saw  the  reflection  of  a  wraith,  the  fetch  of  a  future 
krasband  looking  over  their  shoulders.  Others  stuck  knives 
into  cornstacks,  went  round  the  heap  seven  times  with  their 
eyes  shut  and  then  found  themselves  assisted  by  a  strange 
figure  to  pull  out  the  knife.  This  figure  was  of  course 
their  man  to  be.  Others  threw  cloos  of  yarn  down  into 
limekilns,  holding  one  end  of  the  thread  in  their  hands. 
Then  they  drew  the  yarn  out  and  at  the  end  of  it  came 
their  future  husband. 

But  these  were  merely  minor  affairs  save  where  the 
younger  girls  were  concerned.  And  a  few  of  the  older, 
probably,  if  facts  are  to  be  given;  for  Leggy  O'Donnel, 
who  had  a  figure  like  a  crooked  nail  and  a  rusty  face, 
wrinkled  and  blood-threaded,  was  seen  more  than  once 
standing  on  the  lip  of  a  limekiln  unwinding  her  cloo,  or 
doing  the  circuit  of  a  corn-stack  with  a  knife  stuck  haft- 
deep  in  the  pile. 

Nevertheless,  the  great  events  of  the  night  were  the 
dances,  assemblies  and  arnals.  The  homes  of  the  most  close- 
fisted  and  near-going  families  were  open  that  night,  and 
all  who  came  were  welcome.  Dungarrow  from  the  top  to 
bottom  had  scarcely  a  home  that  did  not  boast  its  full 
Hallowe'en  table  and  open  bottle.  It  was  a  night  of  merry- 
making and  match-making,  of  drinking,  quarreling  and 
capers  of  the  most  hilarious  kind.  In  the  assemblies  of 
the  young  dances  were  held,  dreams  of  a  year's  standing 


46  MAUREEN 

were  recounted  and  interpretations  sought  for.  Future 
events  and  contingencies  were  foretold  by  the  aid  of  chiro- 
mancy, moles,  cards,  the  color  of  hair,  the  cracking  of  nuts, 
the  dripping  of  molten  lead  into  water  through  the  eye 
of  a  key. 

It  was  also  said  that  if  a  person  went  round  the  rath  on 
the  knowe  behind  Columb  Keeran's  house  seven  times  con- 
trary to  the  course  of  the  sun  a  door  would  open  in  the 
knowe  and  he  would  be  admitted  into  the  Land  of  Tir 
Nan  Og.  This  feat  had  to  be  performed  alone,  but  nobody 
ever  tried  it.  The  young  and  frolicsome  were  frightened, 
the  old  and  sedate  would  never  be  tempted  to  try  such  a 
childish  diversion. 

Now  there  were  some  among  the  inhabitants  of  Dungar- 
row  who  never  took  part  in  these  Hall'eve  customs,  old 
people  most  of  them,  with  the  fun  gone  from  their  blood 
and  their  thoughts  on  the  next  world  when  not  on  the  grope 
for  the  goods  of  this.  Then  there  were  some  girls  who 
had  grown  past  marrying  age,  the  white  hairs  of  prim 
prudery  appearing  on  their  heads.  Some  men,  too,  bach- 
elors creeping  over  middle  age,  had  no  liking  for  such  en- 
tertainments, and  on  Hallowe'en  these  stayed  in  their 
homes  and  did  not  go  out  beyond  the  doorstep. 

There  was  one  woman  who  always  stayed  in  her  home 
on  Hallowe'en  night  and  that  was  Cassie,  the  wife  of  Eamon 
na  Sgaddan.  By  virtue  of  marriage  and  beneficence  of 
death  (her  mother  had  just  died),  she  was  the  mistress 
of  the  best  holding  in  the  townland.  Taking  it  hill  and 
holm,  meadow  and  moor,  the  farm  covered  some  five-score 
acres,  nine  of  which  were  first-class  spadeland.  She  had 
money  by,  and  her  house  was  one  of  the  most  comfortable 
in  the  parish.  So  outside  report  had  it,  but  poor  Mr.  Bro- 
gan  knew  otherwise.  For  him,  the  master,  there  was 
neither  comfort,  content  nor  happiness.  Married,  the  two- 
month  husband  was  kept  in  his  place,  for  his  wife,  mighty 
of  bone  and  muscle,  domineering  and  overbearing,  saw  that 
he  did  whatever  she  ordered  him  to  do.  Even  the  neigh- 
bors, though  not  knowing  the  interior  life  of  this  house- 
hold, felt  that  Eamon  was  not  master.  They  called  him 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  47 

Cassie  Shemus  Meehal's  man,  but  the  woman  was  never 
known  as  Mr.  Brogan's  wife.  To  the  Dungarrow  folk  this 
designation  was  altogether  unconsonant.  They  would  as 
soon  think  of  speaking  of  the  tail's  dog  or  the  horn's  cow. 

He  was  now  sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  his  black 
clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hat  thrust  well  back  on  his 
head  and  his  mind  brooding  dreamily  on  the  days  that 
were  gone,  of  the  time  when  he  could  go  from  house  to 
house  as  he  desired,  sit  awhile  at  any  table  and  enter  into 
the  discussion  and  talk  of  the  evening. 

At  the  present  moment  the  woman  who  had  married 
him  was  out  in  the  byre  milking  the  cows,  and  when  he 
listened  he  could  hear  the  swish  of  milk  in  the  gugeen.  A 
cat  sat  by  the  fire  washing  its  whiskers;  the  dog  Copen- 
hagen, under  the  bed,  could  be  heard  gnawing  a  bone. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  step  outside  and  the  woman 
of  the  house  entered,  her  hair  awry  and  falling  down  in 
strands  from  under  the  kerchief  which  she  wore,  her  blouse 
open  at  the  neck  and  her  sleeves  thrust  up  to  the  elbows. 
She  placed  the  pail  of  milk  which  she  carried  on  the 
ground,  and  with  arm  akimbo  she  fixed  a  stern  look  on 
her  husband. 

"Haven't  done  a  hand's  turn  since  I  went  out,  I'll  go 
bail,"  she  said  in  a  loud,  strident  voice.  "Sitting  there 
with  one  arm  as  long  as  the  other  and  the  whole  house  goin' 
to  rack  and  ruin  with  nobody  to  do  a  hand's  turn  barrin' 
meself . ' ' 

Eamon  na  Sgaddan  sprang  to  his  feet,  lifted  a  besom 
from  the  floor  and  started  brushing  the  ashes  back  from 
the  hearth  into  the  fireplace. 

"And  what  are  ye  at,  now!"  said  the  woman.  "Who 
wants  ye  to  start  foolin'  about  with  the  besom  and  fillin' 
the  milk  with  ashes?  That  wasn't  what  I  told  ye  to  do, 
was  it?" 

"In  the  interests  of  hygiene,"  began  Eamon,  then 
stopped  short  as  he  saw  the  look  of  stern  reproof  which 
his  wife  fixed  on  him. 

"How  many  times  have  I  to  tell  ye  to  stop  from  talkin* 
them  long  words,"  she  cried.  "Ye  were  a  fool  and  the 


48  MAUREEN 

talk  iv  the  parish  before  I  had  the  bad  luck  to  marry  ye, 
and  now  ye  are  ten  times  worse.  No  wonder  the  people 
call  ye  a  plaisham.  I'm  sick  and  tired  iv  ye;  that's  what 
I  am,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  Look  at  the  way  ye  look  at  me 
now,  yer  two  eyes  stickin'  out  iv  yer  head  and  yer  mouth 
hangin'  open  like  a  dead  fish!" 

With  these  words  Cassie  went  to  the  dresser,  turned  up 
a  crock  that  lay  top  down  on  a  shelf  and  brushed  it  over 
with  a  towel.  Taking  a  strainer  from  the  peg  she  emptied 
the  milk  through  it  into  the  crock,  while  Eamon  put  some 
turf  on  the  fire,  piling  them  up  in  a  nice  bulky  heap  against 
the  back  of  the  fireplace.  Cassie  placed  the  lid  on  the 
crock  and  turned  to  Eamon,  fixing  a  stern  look  of  disap- 
proval on  the  man.  When  he  had  finished  the  job  she 
came  forward  with  a  swoop  as  the  hawk  dips  on  its  prey, 
caught  the  tongs  and  lifted  off  practically  all  the  turf  that 
Eamon  had  piled  on. 

"Now,  for  what  were  you  putting  all  them  on?"  she 
asked,  when  she  had  undone  her  husband's  job. 

"To  give  some  heat  to  the  edifice,  the  house  I  mean," 
Eamon  stammered. 

The  woman  gave  a  grunt  as  if  no  words  could  really  ex- 
press what  she  thought  of  the  man;  then  going  to  the 
peg  in  the  wall  she  took  down  a  striped  shawl  and  tied  it 
round  her  head. 

"I'm  goin'  out,"  said  she,  in  her  usual  stentorian  tones, 
as  if  Eamon  were  in  some  way  responsible  for  this  excep- 
tional move  on  her  part.  "So  see  and  put  on  the  pratees 
in  an  hour's  time  that  we  can  have  a  bit  a  supper  afore 
we  go  to  bed." 

"But  where  are  ye  goin'?"  asked  Eamon,  for  this  was 
the  first  night  since  the  marriage  that  his  wife  had  shown 
any  desire  to  leave  her  home. 

"Ask  no  questions  and  ye '11  hear  no  lies,"  said  the 
woman.  "But  I  might  tell  ye  that  it  was  Sally  Rourke 
that  came  into  the  byre  when  I  was  strippin'  the  bastes 
and  told  me  somethin'  that  I'd  like  to  hear  more  about." 

"Sally  Rourke!"  Eamon  exclaimed.  "Then  it  must  be 
a  stupendous  matter  since  Sally  Rourke  came  to  speak 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  49 

about  it  and  not  a  word  passing  betwixt  her  and  you  for 
God  knows  how  long.  What  was  it  at  all?" 

"What  it  was,"  said  the  woman  tersely,  and  without 
another  word  she  tightened  the  shawl  round  her  shoulders 
and  went  outside.  For  a  moment  he  could  hear  the  clatter 
of  her  heavy  boots  on  the  street ;  then  the  sounds  died  away 
and  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  was  left  to  himself,  his  empty 
house  and  his  ruined  fire. 

' '  Well,  it 's  a  lot  better  to  let  her  have  her  own  way  when 
she's  like  that,"  said  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  priding  himself 
on  the  forbearance  which  necessity  demanded  and  common 
sense  ordained.  Cassie  had  married  Eamon  for  his  land 
and  substance,  not  for  himself.  This  she  often  told  him, 
when  lamenting  the  Fate  that  gave  into  her  hand  such  an 
encumbrance  as  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  with  the  hundred-acre 
farm  of  land. 

"Just  give  her  her  own  way  and  she'll  cool,"  he  said, 
lighting  his  pipe  and  remaking  the  fire.  Then  he  placed 
the  teapot  on  the  hob,  filled  it  with  water  and  waited  for 
it  to  boil. 

"Just  a  little  modicum  of  beverage  before  she  comes 
back,  and  that  will  be  some  consolation,"  he  said.  "A 
collation  of  tea  on  Hall'eve  night!  And  where  is  she 
proceeding  to,  now?  It's  the  first  time  that  she  has  left 
the  abode  since  we  were  married.  I  wonder  what  she's  up 
to  ?  But  I  must  be  patient  with  her !  Aye,  I  must  be  pa- 
tient!" 

in 

At  that  moment  Cassie  was  crossing  the  braes  towards 
the  roadway  where  a  light  gleamed  from  the  window  of 
Condy  Heelagh's.  For  the  past  three  years  she  had  not 
entered  the  house  of  the  cobbler,  not  since  the  time  the 
cobbler's  wife,  Peggy  Ribbig,  had  accused  her  of  taking 
possession  of  some  duck  eggs  which  were  found  in  a  nest 
in  the  boundary  ditch  between  the  two  farms.  The  nest 
was  under  a  holly  bush  and  the  number  of  eggs  which  it 
contained  was  thirteen.  Both  claimed  to  have  ducks  which 


50  MAUREEN 

laid  out,  and  both  claimed  that  the  ducks  which  laid  out 
deposited  the  eggs  in  this  nest  under  the  holly  bush.  Two 
might  have  come  to  an  understanding,  even  two  Dungar- 
row  women,  but  at  a  critical  period  when  the  argument 
reached  its  height,  a  third  party  came  in,  also  a  claimant 
for  these  eggs. 

This  was  the  woman,  Sally  Rourke,  who  vowed  that  she 
saw  the  duck  there  every  day,  laying  its  egg,  that  the  duck 
did  not  belong  to  either  of  the  two  original  disputants, 
that  it  in  fact  belonged  to  herself,  Sally  Rourke.  She 
allowed  the  eggs  to  remain  there,  for  she  knew  that  the 
duck  would  soon  clock  and  bring  out  a  fine  ailian  of  duck- 
lings. The  matter,  however,  was  very  soon  settled  by 
Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 

"I've  got  the  eggs,"  she  said.  "They  are  mine  and 
they'll  remain  mine.  Findin's  keepin'." 

Saying  this,  she  turned  her  back  on  the  two  women  and 
went  home,  the  eggs  in  her  apron.  Since  that  day  none 
of  the  three  women  had  spoken  to  one  another.  But  now — 

But  now  something  had  occurred,  something  which  was 
going  to  help  a  little  towards  the  establishment  of  better 
feeling  and  greater  fraternity  amongst  the  people  of  Mee- 
naroodagh.  On  one  subject  calling  for  counsel  and  con- 
sultation, they  could  come  together,  discuss  it,  pass  ver- 
dicts on  it,  probe  the  why  and  wherefore  of  this  strange 
occurrence,  become  critics  and  judges  on  the  matter.  It 
was  a  way  that  suddenly  opened  towards  brotherly  friend- 
ship and  peace,  an  excuse  for  renewing  old  relations. 

When  the  priest  did  the  stations  of  the  cross  round  the 
country,  old  quarrels  were  generally  settled  by  the  various 
families.  But  not  so  between  the  Meehals,  the  Heelaghs 
and  the  Rourkes.  The  stations  instead  of  healing  these  old 
sores  seemed  to  set  a  seal  on  eternal  rancor.  That  the 
warring  factions  did  not  speak  to  one  another  for  a  year 
was  in  itself  no  sign  of  the  eternity  of  their  hate.  Give 
them  an  opportunity  and  they  might  make  friends.  But 
when  the  stations  came  and  passed  and  concord  not  es- 
tablished, it  was  a  sign  that  relations  were  irrevocably 
severed.  But  now — 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  51 

Cassie  walked  with  a  great  swinging  stride,  her  blouse 
open  at  the  neck  although  the  night  was  very  cold.  But 
the  woman  gave  no  heed  to  the  weather.  Her  one  thought 
was  to  take  old  Peggy  Bibbig  into  a  corner  of  the  home 
and  have  a  heart  to  heart  talk  with  the  ancient  mother, 
despite  the  old  feud,  which  even  now  was  almost  forgot- 
ten. Something  more  vital  and  more  absorbing  filled  Cas- 
sie's  mind.  She  could  be  big  with  Peggy  now.  Though 
the  two  of  them  had  not  spoken  for  such  a  long  time,  they 
would  now  hold  converse  and  become  friends.  Cassie 's 
whole  being  was  filled  with  joy,  and  such  was  her  exhilara- 
tion that  on  the  last  lap  of  the  journey  she  ran  like  a  hare 
towards  the  open  door  of  the  cobbler's  home. 

She  went  in  without  knocking,,  as  is  customary  in  Dun- 
garrow.  Old  Peggy  was  sitting  in  the  corner  beside  the 
kitchen  bed  knitting  a  stocking.  At  her  feet  a  cat  was 
lying  asleep.  The  cobbler  himself  was  not  in,  neither  were 
the  young  girls,  the  three  of  them.  Two  had  been  recently 
married,  Hannah  and  Mary,  to  men  rich  in  stock  and  store, 
both  natives  of  the  townland  of  Meenarood,  which  was 
next  but  one  to  Meenaroodagh.  The  other  girls  were  now 
probably  out  on  their  ceilidh  at  the  house  of  some  neigh- 
bor. 

Peggy  Ribbig  put  back  the  net  which  covered  her  white 
hair,  allowing  one  tuft  to  fall  down  her  brow,  and  rubbed 
her  eyes  as  if  they  were  playing  her  false  when  she  caught 
sight  of  the  visitor. 

"  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal!"  she  exclaimed,  catching  both 
hands  of  the  visitor.  "A  hundred  thousand  welcomes  to 
ye!  Sit  down  be  the  fire  and  have  a  warm  to  yer  shins. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Cassie!  Glad  to  see  ye." 

"Thank  ye,  Peggy,"  said  Cassie,  and  sat  down.  "It 
must  be  bitter  lonely  for  ye  in  here  all  on  yer  own." 

"It's  that,  Cassie,  that,  indeed!"  said  the  old  woman, 
taking  a  snuff-box  from  her  breast,  opening  it  and  handing 
it  to  the  visitor.  "But  what  can  one  do  and  one  old? 
Himself  is  down  in  the  town  getting  a  bag  iv  leather,  and 
the  girshas  are  out  and  at  the  dance  up  at  Myles  Doherty's. 
A  big  dance  it  is,  surely,  from  what  they  tell  me,  and 


52  MAUREEN 

lashin's  iv  potheen  at  it  from  the  hills.    And  himself,  how 
is  he  at  all?"  she  inquired. 

"Rightly,"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  her  thoughts 
running  for  a  moment  to  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  sitting  at 
home  by  the  fire.  "A  bit  tired  he  is,  for  he  has  worked 
that  hard  the  day  up  on  the  hills  after  the  sheep  and  them 
running  away  everywhere." 

"You'll  make  him  work  whether  he  wants  to  or  not,  the 
poor  plaisham,"  thought  Peggy  Ribbig.  "And  didn't  that 
gray  heifer  iv  yours  die  with  the  muirill  the  other  day?" 
she  asked. 

"Seven  days,  come  the  morrow,  she  died,"  said  Cassie. 

"And  such  a  fine  bit  iv  a  baste,  too,"  said  Peggy  sym- 
pathetically. 

"Ay,  indeed!  A  soncy  promising  animal  and  puttin' 
on  beef  all  the  time  by  our  way  iv  thinkin',"  said  Cassie 
with  a  sigh  for  the  result  which  belied  a  promise. 
"Now  when  did  we  get  it?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
as  if  soliloquizing.  "Wasn't  it  sometime  about  Candlemas 
last,  the  time  the  dance  was  in  Neddy  Og's?  Wasn't  there 
a  dance  in  Neddy  Og  's  last  Candlemas  night  ? ' ' 

"There  was  that,  indeed,"  said  Peggy.  "All  the  girls 
in  the  house  here  were  at  it  and  most  iv  the  boys  were 
tight,  too.  They  went  on  with  it  till  the  very  screech  iv 
dawn. ' ' 

"And  almost  every  one  in  the  place  was  at  it,"  said 
Cassie.  "I  could  hear  them  singing  all  the  night  and  not 
a  wink  iv  sleep  could  I  get  at  all,  what  with  the  girls  coming 
home  laughin'  and  the  boys  fighting  about  them  on  the 
road  in  the  dark." 

"That's  boys,  always,  the  vagabonds,"  said  Peggy  with 
a  tolerant  sniff.  "They* will  gad  about  and  have  their  fling 
with  the  blood  warm  in  them  and  the  legs  supple." 

"Some  iv  them  were  not  very  supple  iv  leg  at  Neddy 
Og's  dance,"  said  Cassie.  "There  was  more'n  one  iv  them 
that  went  under  the  table  with  what  they'd  taken.  So  I 
heard  say  at  Mass  next  day.  I  was  comin'  up  the  road 
after  the  last  Gospel,  for  what  with  the  calves  to  put  out 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  53 

and  the  old  brannat  cow  comin'  and  it  fed  on  linseed 
three  times  a  day  I  couldn't  stay  to  the  sermon.  Who  was 
it  that  was  with  me  up  the  road  I  cannot  call  to  mind  now, 
but  whoever  it  was  was  speakin'  about  the  dance  the  night 
afore,  and  the  drinkin'  and  the  skiftin'  and  one  thing  and 
another. ' ' 

"There  never '11  be  a  stop  put  to  drinkin'  and  skiftin','' 
said  Peggy  Ribbig,  pulling  the  greeshaugh  from  the  heart 
of  the  fire  with  the  tongs  and  placing  the  teapot  on  it. 
"It  always  was  the  way  and  always  will  be  till  the  end." 

"Don't  be  troublin'  about  making  any  tay  for  me, 
Peggy,"  said  Cassie  with  a  smile.  "It  was  only  just 
afore  I  came  out  that  I  had  a  drop  iv  tay.  My  heart's 
burned  out  iv  me  with  the  drinkin'  iv  tay  hour  in,  hour 
out,  all  through  the  day." 

"Just  a  wee  deoch,  and  the  night  so  cold  and  it  Hair- 
eve,"  Peggy  cajoled,  again  taking  the  snuff-box  from  her 
breast  and  handing  it  to  Cassie.  "It  won't  be  so  long 
till  it's  ready  and  such  a  heat  in  under  it.  But  it  was  a 
great  night  and  all  Candlemas  last,"  she  continued,  "for 
I  mind  it  well  and  it  comin'  near  the  morn  with  the  noise 
and  the  whisperin'  outside  and  the  girls  comin'  in  and 
laughin'  to  themselves  and  doin'  it  quiet  so  that  me  and 
himself  wouldn't  hear  it  and  us  two  lyin'  here  and  him- 
self sleepin'  and  snorin'  with  all  his  might.  He's  one  for 
the  snorin',  Condy  Heelagh." 

"And  ye've  no  knowin'  at  all  iv  who  was  it  that  left 
the  dance  with  Kathleen  O'Malley  that  night,  Peggy?" 
asked  Cassie,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  and  looking  over  her 
shoulder  as  if  afraid  that  some  one  was  behind  her  listen- 
ing. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  who  went  home  with  her  that 
night,"  Peggy  replied,  but  so  promptly  that  Cassie  felt 
that  the  old  woman  did  know.  Peggy,  although  advanced 
in  years,  was  a  perfect  store  of  local  gossip.  Always  in- 
terested in  her  daughters'  talk,  she  knew  everything  of 
the  current  events  of  the  locality.  "She's  the  girl  for 
the  boys,  the  same  Kathleen  O'Malley,"  said  the  old  woman, 


54  MAUREEN 

a  certain  asperity  in  her  voice.  "And  it's  with  one  boy 
or  another  that  she  always  is,  whenever  she  comes  out  to 
a  dance  or  on  her  ceilidh." 

"Well,  she  was  like  that  at  one  time,  I  suppose,"  said 
Cassie,  bending  down  her  head  till  her  lips  almost  touched 
Peggy's  ears.  "At  one  time,  mind  ye,  but  she'll  not  be 
goin'  out  with  the  boys  again." 

"Has  the  sickness  got  hold  of  her,  then?"  asked  Peggy, 
sitting  up  on  her  hassock  and  looking  at  Cassie. 

"Somethin'  worse  nor  that,"  said  Cassie,  again  looking 
over  her  shoulder. 

"She's  not  dead,  God  rest  her!"  exclaimed  Peggy. 

"Worse  nor  that,  even,"  said  Cassie.  "She's  took  to 
her  bed,  and  Sally  Rourke  has  gone  up  to  see  her.  She's 
in  the  fashion." 

Peggy  gave  a  long-drawn  "Ah"  with  a  world  of  mean- 
ing in  its  depths,  got  to  her  feet,  went  to  the  door  with 
slow,  noiseless  steps  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard.  She 
shut  the  door  quietly,  drew  the  bolt  and  came  back  noise- 
lessly to  her  hassock.  For  a  minute  she  remained  seated, 
lost  in  thought,  her  expression  solemn  as  that  of  a  peni- 
tent before  entering  the  confessional.  She  got  to  her  feet 
again,  glided  to  the  tea-box  on  the  hob,  drew  out  three 
fingers  of  tea  and  placed  it  quietly  on  the  water  in  the 
black  delf  teapot.  Again  she  sank  on  the  hassock,  rested 
her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  looked  at  Cassie  Shemus 
Meehal. 

"Ah  and  indeed !"  she  whined,  as  if  she  had  known  from 
the  beginning  that  this  calamity  might  have  occurred  to 
Kathleen  Malley  if  the  girl  was  not  very  cautious. 

"Indeed  that!"  said  Cassie  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice  as 
if  surprised  that  such  a  calamity  had  not  occurred  before. 

"But  ye 're  sure  iv  it,  are  ye?"  asked  Peggy,  a  little 
disconcerted  as  the  thought  that  the.f act  of  to-morrow  might 
disprove  the  statement  of  to-night  crossed  her  mind.  ' '  Talk 
goes  round  and  I've  seen  her  the  other  day  and  it  didn't 
look  like  it.  And  thin  on  it,  too,  she  looked  from  my  way 
iv  thinkin',  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal.  'Twas  down  to  Mass 
she  was  goin',  and  a  high  head  she  carried." 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  55 

"I'm  sure  iv  it,"  said  Cassie,  shaking  her  head  as  if  in 
condemnation  of  the  woman  who  dared  to  look  like  other 
people  when  going  to  her  devotions.  ' '  'Twas  Sally  Kourke 
that  came  in  to  the  byre  and  me  gettin'  the  strippin's  from 
the  brannat  cow!  'Glory  to  God!  and  is  it  yerself  that 
I'm  seein','  says  I.  'Yerself  Sally  Rourke.'  'It's  me,* 
says  she,  and  then  she  told  me  where  she  was  off  to.  And 
her  comin'  out  iv  her  way,  too,  to  let  me  know,  for  the 
journey  would  be  shorter  to  the  Malleys'  from  her  house 
through  Gubby  Rattagh.  And  Sally  short  of  wind,  too, 
and  gettin'  stiff  in  the  joints  with  rheumatics." 

"And  not  so  long  since  she  had  her  last  bad  turn," 
Peggy  Ribbig  added. 

"That's  true,"  said  Cassie.  "But  then  she's  a  hardy 
woman  and  as  supple  as  a  two-year-old  when  she  gets  rid 
iv  the  pains.  At  Neddy  Og's  dance  she  was  as  ready  as 
any  iv  the  young  ones  to  foot  a  six-hand  reel  or  an  Alaman 
and  her  comin'  close  on  sixty  or  more.  And  maybe  it  was 
then  and  the  boys  filled  with  drink,"  Cassie  continued, 
as  if  the  dance  at  Neddy  Og's  had  given  her  further  ideas 
on  the  all-absorbing  topic.  "Now  and  I  wonder  who  was 
it  that  went  home  with  her  that  night.  It's  just  nine 
months  since  then." 

"  Tis  that,"  said  the  old  woman,  making  tally  of  the 
months  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand  and  gazing  solemnly  at 
the  finger  which  she  did  not  need  twice.  "But  was  any- 
body goin '  with  her  at  the  time  ?  She  was  so  concaity  and 
full  iv  pride  that  it  wasn't  every  one  that  she  would  let 
ravel  her  yarn." 

With  these  words  Peggy  got  to  her  feet,  went  to  the 
door,  opened  it  and  looked  out. 

"I  don't  hear  himself  comin'  up  the  road  at  all,  as 
yet,"  she  called  to  Cassie  over  her  shoulder.  "And  there's 
a  light  in  Malley's  house,  down  in  the  room  where  the  bed 
is,"  she  went  on.  "And  I  can  hear  the  fiddle  goin'  up 
at  Myles  Doherty's.  They're  having  a  night  iv  it.  And 
there's  a  light  in  Connel  Logan's  house,  too,  with  poor 
old  Nancy  in  there  all  on  her  lone.  Her  boys  are  all 
out  at  the  dancin',  for  I  could  hear  them  talkin'  and 


56  MAUREEN 

singin*  when  they  went  by  here  a  couple  iv  hours  gone." 

Peggy  came  back  to  the  fire,  lifted  the  teapot  and  blew 
the  ashes  from  the  stroup.  She  placed  it  on  a  clean  space 
of  the  hob  and  poured  some  milk  and  sugar  into  two 
earthenware  bowls. 

"They're  more  homely,  these  bowls,"  she  said,  handing 
one  to  Cassie.  "Some  ones  is  up  to  cups  and  saucers  and 
what  not,  but  for  me  it's  always  the  bowl  that  can  hold  a 
good  bellyful.  Cups  and  saucers  are  right  enough  for 
them  that  likes  them,  but  give  me  the  bowl  and  I  don't 
want  nothin '  iv  these  new-fangled  quality  poothers ! ' ' 

So  saying  she  poured  the  tea  into  the  bowls  and  handed 
one  to  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 

"And  ould  Nancy  Logan  is  all  on  her  lone  in  the  house 
up  there?"  asked  Cassie. 

"She  is  that,"  said  Peggy,  swallowing  in  a  mouthful 
of  tea  with  one  mighty  gulp.  "And  poor  soul,  it's  lonely 
for  her  all  on  her  own  be  night  with  the  boys  out ! ' ' 

IV 

This  feeling  of  hearty  sympathy  sounded  strange  to 
Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  who  was  well  aware  that  Peggy 
Ribbig  and  Nancy  Logan  had  not  spoken  a  civil  word  for 
the  past  seven  months.  Relations  had  been  strained  be- 
tween the  two  families,  the  Heelaghs  and  the  Logans,  over 
a  matter  of  turf.  The  previous  year  was  a  very  wet  one, 
and  few  families  managed  to  get  all  their  peat  dried.  The 
Logans  early  at  the  cutting  managed  to  lay  a  certain  stock 
aside,  but  the  Heelaghs,  not  so  lucky,  found  themselves 
at  the  heel  of  harvest  with  the  winter  in  front,  without  a 
dry  clod  of  turf  in  their  possession.  A  hearth  without 
ashes  is  like  a  marriage-bed  without  a  woman  as  they  say 
in  Dungarrow,  so  Condy,  knowing  this  from  many  a  hard 
winter's  experience,  did  his  best  to  keep  a  smoking  chimney 
through  the  cold  weather.  The  chimney  smoked  and  the 
Logan's  turf  disappeared  mysteriously.  Nancy  was  wroth, 
and  one  day  meeting  Peggy  Ribbig  on  the  road  she  spoke 
about  the  loss  of  the  turf. 


57 

"They're  goin',"  she  said.  "A  creel  one  night  and  t\vo 
creels  another,  and  none  iv  the  boys  can  tell  who's  takiu' 
them.  Ye  yerself  haven 't  any  notion  iv  who 's  takiii '  them, 
Peggy  Ribbig?" 

"Oh,  I  know  nothin'  about  them  at  all,"  said  Peggy, 
shaking  her  head.  "I'm  never  about  to  see  what's  hap- 
penin '  to  the  property  iv  my  neighbors. ' ' 

"No,  I  suppose  ye 're  not  then,"  said  Nancy  warmly. 
"It's  about  the  house  ye '11  be  all  day  and  sittin'  be  the 
fire  knittin'  stockin's  and  maybe  makin'  a  drop  iv  tay  on 
the  greeshaugh,  like  a  good,  dacent  woman." 

There  was  something  in  Nancy's  speech,  in  the  emphasis 
placed  on  fire  and  greeshaugh,  that  annoyed  Peggy  Kibbig. 

"Well,  Nancy,  if  I  make  tay,  it's  my  own  tay  and  me 
after  payin'  hard  money  for  it,"  said  Peggy,  aggressively, 
tilting  against  the  latent  imputation. 

"And  on  yer  own  fire,  too,"  said  Nancy  sweetly. 

"If  I  was  wantin'  fire  I  wouldn't  come  to  you  beggin* 
for  it,  Nancy  Logan,"  said  Peggy  sharply,  fumbling  at 
her  cross-over  with  her  fingers. 

"No,  ye  wouldn't  come  beggin'  for  it,  Peggy  Ribbig," 
Nancy  replied,  her  voice  oily  but  ready  to  flare  when  a 
match  was  applied.  "If  ye  came  at  all  it  wouldn't  be 
beggin',  I'll  admit.  Indeed,  it's  yerself  that  wouldn't 
come  at  all.  But  it  might  be  some  one  else,  and  even  him 
if  he  came  wouldn't  come  beggin'.  Give  every  dog  fair 
play!  That's  me  always,  Peggy  Ribbig." 

"And  me  as  well,  Nancy  Logan,"  etc.,  etc. 

"When  the  discussion  came  to  an  end  the  women  went 
to  their  respective  homes,  vowing  eternal  vengeance  on 
one  another,  Peggy  on  Nancy  because  l '  Nancy  was  a  woman 
full  as  an  egg  iv  bad  spite,  talkin'  iv  turf  to  ones  with 
hardly  a  clod  to  burn;"  Nancy  on  Peggy  because  the  lat- 
ter "had  the  consate  to  keep  her  head  so  high  and  her  with 
no  turf  in  her  house  bar  what  her  man  stole  from  his 
neighbors. ' ' 

Nancy,  however,  despite  her  vagaries  of  temper,  was  a 
good-hearted  woman,  and  when  she  came  home  and  saw 
her  son  Liam  sitting  down  in  front  of  a  good  fire  eating 


58  MAUREEN 

his  dinner,  she  thought  of  Peggy  Ribbig  in  her  cold  house 
with  nothing  to  warm  her  and  her  ones  save  stolen  turf 
which  the  cobbler  thieved  in  the  night.  "Liam,"  she  said 
to  the  boy,  "get  yer  creel  on  yer  shoulders  and  fill  it  as 
full  as  ye  can  with  turf  and  take  it  down  to  Condy  Hee- 
lagh." 

Liam  did  so,  but  when  he  entered  Condy  Heelagh's 
house  Peggy  looked  at  him  with  lips  curled  in  an  expres- 
sion of  disdain  and  her  whole  face  dark  with  a  look  of 
sullen  anger. 

"Take  it  back  to  yer  place,"  she  said  hotly,  as  Liam 
placed  his  creel  on  a  chair. 

"But  it's  so  cold  and  the  turf  so  bad,"  Liam  remon- 
strated. 

Peggy  threw  a  crushing  glance  at  the  young  man, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  so  that  a  stray  tuft  of  hair  which 
hung  from  the  fringe  of  her  net  shook  convulsively.  A 
stray  lock  of  hair  seemed  always  out  of  bounds  on  Peggy's 
head,  thus  earning  for  her  the  nickname  "Ribbig."1 

"I  would  starve  to  the  bone  afore  I'd  warm  meself  be 
yer  mother's  charity,"  said  Peggy.  "Take  the  turf  back 
to  her  and  tell  her  that  ye  came  to  a  house  that's  not  held 
be  beggars." 

Liam  lifted  the  creel,  put  it  on  his  shoulders  and  de- 
parted. Since  that  day  the  two  women,  Peggy  and  Nancy, 
had  not  spoken  a  word  to  one  another. 

Now,  however,  Peggy  was  quite  prepared  to  call  on 
Nancy  Logan.  This  surprised  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  but 
on  recollecting  her  own  haste  to  get  into  touch  with  Peggy 
when  she  heard  the  news  her  astonishment  abated.  Bear- 
ing report  of  such  a  startling  event  as  the  plight  and  mis- 
hap of  Kathleen  O  'Malley  was  sufficient  excuse  for  paying 
the  visit. 

"Indeed,  and  it's  a  friendly  thing  to  go  and  see  the 
poor  woman  on  a  night  like  this,"  said  Cassie.  "And  it 
Hall 'eve,  too,  and  her  all  her  lone." 

"Then  another  sup  iv  tay,  Cassie  Shemus,  and  the  two 

i  Ribbig:  the  tuft  of  wool  left  on  a  shorn  sheep,  used  as  a  mark  of 
Identification. 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  59 

iv  us  will  go  together  and  see  poor  Nancy,"  said  Peggy 
Eibbig. 

Together  they  went  to  Nancy  Logan's,  the  two  women 
conceiving  for  Nancy  that  ephemeral  friendship  born  of 
scandal.  Entering  her  home  they  were  surprised  to  find 
the  place  crowded.  It  looked  as  if  the  Hall 'eve  merry- 
making was  in  full  swing  there,  what  with  laughing,  chat- 
tering and  shaking  of  heads  and  hands.  Nancy  was  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  a  cloud  over  her  head,  her  crossover  a-glit- 
ter  with  needles  and  pins  and  looking  like  a  diamond-beaded 
stole.  She  was  talking  in  whispers  to  a  neighbor  woman, 
Maldy  Kennedy,  but  when  she  raised  her  head  and  observed 
Peggy  Ribbig  and  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  enter  the  door, 
she  jumped  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  meet  them. 

"Welcome,  both  iv  ye,"  she  said,  catching  the  hands  of 
both  women  in  her  own  and  shaking  them  as  if  trying 
to  wrench  them  from  the  shoulders.  "Welcome,  both  iv 
ye, ' '  then  in  the  same  breath,  ' '  and  did  ye  hear  about  it  ? " 

"Indeed  aye,  we've  heard  about  it,"  said  Peggy  Kibbig, 
shaking  her  head. 

"Aye,  and  I  heard  about  it  hours  ago,"  said  Cassie 
Shemus  Meehal,  a  little  perturbed  because  she  was  not  the 
first  to  tell  Nancy  Logan  the  news,  nevertheless  seeking 
some  consolation  in  the  fact  that  she  knew  of  it  hours 
ago. 

"Now,  come  the  two  iv  yees  and  sit  down  be  the  fire  here, 
with  Maldy  Kennedy  and  meself,  till  I  make  a  drop  iv  tay 
for  us  all,"  said  Nancy.  "Everybody's  heard  about  it, 
and  they've  all  come  in  here  just  to  have  a  talk.  So  sit 
down  be  the  fire  and  have  a  shin-heat,  and  I  '11  put  the  tay- 
pot  on  the  greeshaugh ! ' ' 

The  four  women  sat  down  by  the  fire,  their  heads  to- 
gether and  the  teapot  resting  on  the  ashes.  They  spoke 
in  whispers,  while  the  men,  feeling  that  they  were  some- 
how in  the  way,  stole  out  quietly.  When  they  came  to 
the  road,  they  stopped,  lit  their  pipes  and  with  one  accord 
fixed  their  eyes  on  the  light  that  shone  in  the  house  of 
Kathleen  O'Malley. 

The  men  were  old.    Seldom  of  late  had  they  left  their 


60  MAUREEN 

homes,  for  on  their  dry  bones  the  winter  cold  was  hard. 
But  on  this  night  an  ancient  instinct,  the  craving  to  know, 
to  see  and  find  out,  had  drawn  them  from  their  chimney- 
corners,  these  age-worn  men,  time-bitten,  skin-dried  and 
wrinkled^  with  toothless  gums  and  drooling  noses.  When 
they  spoke  their  thin  voices  squeaked  from  great  depths 
like  the  gaggle  of  geese  in  a  thick  undergrowth. 

"Aye,  aye,  indeed,"  said  one,  scratching  his  lichen-gray 
beard  with  the  shank  of  his  pipe.  "Nothin'  can  help  her 
now." 

"God  help  her,"  said  another,  with  a  thick  shade  of 
pity  crawling  across  his  features.  "But  it's  young  blood. 
.  .  .  And  it's  long  since  I  put  eyes  on  her,"  he  sighed, 
as  if  for  an  opportunity  lost. 

"And  will  it  be  made  right  for  her?"  asked  a  third, 
holding  the  pipe  with  gnarled  fingers  to  the  slack  lips  that 
lacked  power  and  purchase. 

"Aye,  and  will  it?"  asked  the  others  huskily. 

"Not  if  the  man's  one  iv  some  that  I  know,"  said  Coy 
Fergus  Beeragh,  who  happened  to  be  one  of  the  party. 
"I  mind  once,  twenty-seven  years  ago  the  Christmas 
comin' " 


Back  in  the  house  vacated  by  these  men,  the  teapot  splut- 
tered, and  over  it  the  heads  nodded,  tearing  at  the  tit-bit 
of  scandal  as  hooded  crows  scrape  some  festering  carcass 
on  the  mountain  side.  Nancy,  solicitous  about  the  welfare 
of  her  uninvited  guests,  kept  one  eye  on  the  teapot  and 
two  ears  open  to  the  conversation.  Maldy  Kennedy, 
shocked  by  the  news,  condemned  the  girl  Kathleen ;  Cassie 
Shemus  Meehal,  grave-greedy,  called  for  more,  more,  the 
occasion  and  the  man ;  and  Peggy  Ribbig,  astute  in  analysis, 
picked  stray  bones  from  the  carcass,  touched  them,  tasted 
them,  smelt  them  in  the  hope  that  by  flimsy  clews  she  could 
trace  an  ascertained  effect  back  to  the  antecedent  cause 
which  was  at  present  wrapped  in  mystery. 


CASSIE  SHEMUS  MEEHAL  61 

"Now  who  could  it  be  at  all  and  when  and  where  did 
it  happen?"  said  Nancy,  one  eye  on  the  teapot,  the  wrin- 
kles of  contemplation  gathering  on  her  brow. 

"I'd  give  a  lot  to  know,"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal, 
curiosity  with  its  itch  willing  to  pay  any  money  for  a 
salve. 

"If  we  only  could  know  somethin'!"  said  Peggy  with 
the  air  of  one  who  really  desired  to  know  a  little,  but  was 
not  quite  prepared  to  pay  for  it. 

"It's  not  often  that  things  iv  that  like  takes  place  in 
this  parish,"  said  Nancy.  "And  if  it  does  it's  not  like 
it  should  be.  It's  gettin'  into  the  ways  iv  places  out  and 
beyond  it,  that  it  is." 

* '  True,  true, ' '  said  Maldy,  shaking  her  head  in  condemna- 
tion of  the  parish  that  for  once  failed  to  garrison  its  vir- 
tues. 

"There  was  that  dance  in  Condy  Og's  last  Candlemas 
night, ' '  said  Peggy  Ribbig,  picking  up  a  bone  the  possibil- 
ities of  which  she  had  already  exhausted.  "Nearly  every 
one  was  there,  and  there's  many  a  young  vagabond  goin' 
the  rounds  now  that  I  wouldn't  put  it  past." 

"Neither  would  meself,"  said  Nancy  with  an  emphatic 
nod  at  the  teapot.  "Some  iv  them  quiet  ones!" 

"The  ones  that  ye'd  think  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  their 
mouth,"  said  Maldy.  "And  more  often  than  not  they're 
the  ones  that  cannot  be  trusted." 

"That's  a  true  word,"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 
"When  Sally  Bourke  told  me  about  it  ye  could  knock 
me  down  flat  with  a  feather,  but  that  and  all,  I  put  the 
question  to  Sally  and  asked  her  if  she  had  any  idea  at  all 
iv  who  the  man  could  be.  That  Sally  couldn't  say,  but 
says  she:  'I'll  stake  me  word  on  it  that  it's  one  iv  the 
quiet  ones.'  She  took  the  words  from  me  mouth,  for  that 
was  what  I  thought  meself  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  news. 
Them  quiet  ones!" 

"It's  them  that  can't  be  trusted,"  said  Peggy  Kibbig. 
"I  don't  say  all,  mind  ye,  for  it's  manys  a  good,  simple 
and  modest  man  that's  hereabouts,  but  some!" 


62  MAUREEN 

"If  it  was  in  Drimeeney  itself,"  said  Maldy,  implying 
that  the  parish  would  not  fall  into  total  disrepute  if  the 
affair  took  place  in  Drimeeney,  the  outcast  townland. 

"It  isn't  Drimeeney  townland,  that's  certain,"  said 
Cassie,  sitting  upright  as  if  a  new  light  on  the  riddle  had 
been  suddenly  vouchsafed  her.  ' '  But  if  it  isn  't  Drimeeney 
townland  it  may  have  been  a  Drimeeney  man. ' ' 

"Who?"  asked  three  insatiate  voices  in  unison. 

"One  that's  dead,"  said  Cassie. 

"God  rest  him!"  ejaculated  three  involuntary  voices, 
and  three  pair  of  eyes  looked  in  fright  at  the  open  door. 

"A  Drimeeney  man!"  said  Cassie,  as  a  fencer  follows 
up  a  clever  move  and  thrusts  at  a  discomfited  opponent. 
"A  Drimeeney  man,  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel!" 

"But  can  it  be  him?"  asked  Peggy  Ribbig,  shaking 
an  incredulous  head.  She  was  not  a  little  annoyed  that 
Cassie  should  have  scored  such  a  victory.  "It  may  be  true, 
but  is  it?" 

"That's  it.    Is  it?"  said  Nancy. 

"It  may  be  him  more  than  any  one,"  said  Maldy.  "But 
when  you're  not  certain,  you  don't  know  and  that's  all 
about  it." 

"Well,  I'd  give  a  white  sixpence  to  know  who  he  is," 
said  Nancy  with  a  nod  from  which  might  be  inferred  that 
though  she  was  not  particularly  interested  in  the  man  in 
the  case  she  would  still  go  as  far  as  speculating  a  sixpence 
to  ferret  out  this  detail. 

At  eleven  o  'clock  that  night  the  old  heads  were  still  nod- 
ding round  Nancy  Logan's  fire,  speaking  in  whispers,  and 
at  that  hour  Kathleen  O'Malley  was  delivered  of  a  daugh- 
ter. 


THE  WEE  MAN 

At  night  when  I  am  sit  tin'  in  the  corner  iv  the  house, 
And  oh!  so  close  and  quiet  that  I  couldn't  scare  a  mouse, 
It's  mawmy  up  and  looks  at  me  and  says:  "It's  now  to  bed 
Or  else  'twill  be  the  Fellow  with  the  Wee  Red  Head!" 

And  sure  he's  all  for  capers  and  up  to  any  trick — 
It's  him  that  blows  the  rushlight  out  and  wets  the  candle-wick, 
And  things  that's  worse  than  that  he'll  do  if  it's  not  me  in  bed. 
I'm  feared  iv  him,  the  Fellow  with  the  Wee  Red  Head  I 

It's  him  that  lets  the  down-drops  m  and  salts  the  stirabout. 
And  him  to  shove  the  kitchen-door  and  give  ye  such  a  clout. 
Some  say  the  wind  is  doin'  it,  but  don't  I  know  instead 
It  always  is  the  Fellow  with  the  Wee  Red  Head! 

There  lives  a  man  across  the  ditch.    He's  only  skin  and  "bone; 
It's  poor  he  looks,  but  that  and  all,  he's  money  iv  his  own, 
Bags  iv  it  and  crocks  iv  it,  but  my!  afore  he's  dead 
He'll  lose  it  to  the  Fellow  with  the  Wee  Red  Head! 

It's  comin'  down  the  chimley  brace  when  maw  puts  out  the  light, 
And  round  the  house  and  round  the  house  he's  goin'  all  the  night- 
It's  me  to  get  upon  my  knees  and  pray  and  then  to  bed 
And  not  annoy  the  Fellow  with  the  Wee  Red  Head! 


CHAPTER   III 

MAUREEN  O'MALLEY 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY,  the  daughter  of  Kathleen, 
had  reached  the  age  of  seventeen.  She  was  a  very 
handsome  girl,  well  formed,  of  graceful  carriage, 
and  in  nature  sensitive  and  passionate.  She  was  in  no 
way  like  the  run  of  ordinary  colleens;  on  her  there  was  a 
stamp  of  something  distinctive,  something  that  looked  to 
horizons  out  and  beyond  the  common  run.  Her  face  had 
something  in  it  above  the  ordinary. 

Her  brow  was  open  and  white  as  milk;  her  eyebrows, 
strongly  arched,  gave  her  a  certain  commanding  look  modi- 
fied by  large,  dark,  tender  eyes,  frank  and  childish,  tell- 
ing of  artless  sincerity  and  innate  purity  of  disposition. 
Her  nose  was  straight,  with  sensitive  nostrils  that  quivered 
when  anything  excited  her.  Her  lips,  full  and  red,  opened 
to  show  two  perfect  rows  of  teeth  and  closed  tightly  when 
she  was  annoyed,  showing  determination  that  was  not 
stubbornness  and  certainty  of  purpose  that  was  not  ob- 
stinacy. Her  hair,  not  yet  rolled  into  coils  which  tell  of 
years,  hung  down  over  her  shoulders,  long  wavy  brown 
hair,  a  mystery  of  sheen  and  shade,  glossy  on  the  surface 
and  dark  in  its  depths.  She  was  wonderfully  beautiful,  a 
spirit  of  grace  and  harmony. 

No  skillful  sorting  of  dress,  no  affected  arrangement  of 
cloth  or  contour  went  to  add  to  her  charms.  She  was  a 
child  of  nature,  of  the  hills  and  the  valleys.  Maureen's 
was  a  terrible  simplicity,  fatal  in  its  power,  overpowering 
in  its  very  artlessness. 

At  the  chapel-gate  on  Sundays  the  young  men  of  the 

65 


66  MAUREEN 

parish  waited  to  see  her  come  out  from  her  devotions. 
When  the  old  women  saw  this  with  their  sidelong  glance 
of  suspicion  they  shook  their  heads  and  said:  "She'll 
never  come  to  a  good  end !  She 's  like  her  mother,  bold  and 
forward ! ' '  The  young  girls  looked  on  Maureen  with  envy. 
If  she  did  not  exist  they  might  attract  the  attention  which 
was  bestowed  on  her.  They  spoke  of  her  slightingly,  mali- 
ciously. "Who  is  she,  anyway,  to  hold  her  head  as  high?" 
they  said.  "But  it's  like  one  iv  her  sort  to  be  like  that." 

She  went  to  school  when  she  was  quite  little  and  became 
one  of  the  most  apt  pupils  under  the  village  schoolmaster. 
Her  education  was,  of  course,  somewhat  desultory.  The 
master,  Mick  Gallagher,  an  old  man,  age-doaty,  and  rather 
indulgent,  taught  her  very  little,  beyond  arithmetic,  read- 
ing and  writing.  These  arts,  the  three  R's,  Maureen  soon 
mastered ;  and  having  time  to  spare  when  her  lessons  were 
ended  at  the  school,  her  natural  perception  and  apprehen- 
sion led  her  to  books  set  apart  for  children  of  riper  years. 
While  in  the  third  standard  she  knew  the  lessons  of  the 
older  scholars,  studying  them  with  greater  discrimination 
than  did  those  for  whom  they  were  intended. 

In  fact,  the  girl,  following  the  bent  of  her  own  mind, 
acquired  knowledge  far  in  advance  of  her  years,  and  with 
a  power  of  imagination  and  love  of  reading  she  read  into 
cold  print  something  which  the  writer  probably  felt  but 
which  even  the  village  pedagogue  hardly  understood. 

At  twelve,  she  had  read  practically  every  book  in  the 
school,  knew  most  of  Moore's  melodies  by  heart,  and  with 
a  memory  of  uncommon  tenacity  stored  with  much  ill- 
arranged  and  miscellaneous  knowledge,  she  left  school  and 
went  home  to  her  mother. 

Fond  of  her  books  at  school,  the  craze  for  reading  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  home  fireside  where  in  the  evenings  she 
could  be  seen,  her  hair  down  over  her  brows,  with  a  dog- 
eared volume  in  her  hand,  reading  of  fairies  and  ancient 
princesses  who  once  lived  in  Ireland  in  the  days  that  were 
when  the  country  flowed  with  milk  and  honey,  when  war- 
riors with  long  lances  and  swords  of  gold  rode  through 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  67 

the  dark  passes,  coining  to  rescue  beautiful  princesses  im- 
prisoned in  the  dark  cooms  of  Sliav  a  Tuagh  and  the  sea- 
drenched  caves  of  Magherawor. 

Stories  such  as  these  delighted  the  young  girl.  With 
her  vivid  imagination  she  pictured  herself  at  times  as  the 
unhappy  princess  weeping  for  the  troubles  heaped  upon 
her  head  and  waiting  for  the  knight  to  come  and  rescue 
her  from  her  bondage.  Or  again  she  was  Kitty  the  Ashy 
Pet,  servant  to  a  harsh  mistress,  waiting  for  the  bonnie 
Bull  of  Norraway  to  come  and  carry  her  away  on  his  horns 
to  some  grand  castle  where  he  would  place  her  and  then 
turn  himself  into  the  fairy  prince  that  he  really  had  been 
before  the  curse  of  a  cruel  witch  changed  him  into  a  bull. 

There  was  nothing  to  mar  Maureen's  delight  as  she  sat 
at  her  mother 's  knee  beside  the  hearth  and  read  these  tales 
with  the  wind  whistling  over  the  chimney-top  and  the 
sparks  flying  up  against  the  soot,  lighting  the  dark  back- 
ground just  as  her  own  fancies  illumined  the  gloom  of  her 
existence. 

On  Sundays  Maureen  loved  to  wander  into  the  spinney 
which  clustered  round  the  brook  that  ran  by  her  door. 
Here,  while  other  girls  played  tig  or  jackstones  on  the 
roadway,  Maureen  would  clamber  up  over  the  rocks,  tear- 
ing her  clothes  and  her  naked  shins  in  the  scramble,  hear- 
ing the  soft  pitter-patter  of  the  falling  water,  the  restless 
movement  of  the  swaying  hazel-branches  and  the  chirping 
and  singing  of  the  birds.  Sounds  with  no  apparent  origin 
reached  her  ears  when  she  stood  still  in  a  hazel  nook  or 
broom  hollow:  the  chirping  and  twittering  of  insect  life, 
the  sharp  squeal  of  a  hidden  stoat  or  the  rustling  movement 
of  a  scurrying  rabbit  in  the  undergrowth.  As  she  listened 
she  was  filled  with  the  sense  of  a  dim,  delicious  awe,  as  at 
the  presence  of  a  world  full  of  mystery  which  she  did  not 
understand  and  the  secrets  of  which  she  could  never  fathom. 
Probably  she  would  stay  there  all  day,  while  her  mother 
was  down  in  the  town,  but  at  night,  full  of  stories  of  great 
adventure,  she  would  run  to  meet  the  tired  woman. 

"Oh,  maw,  I  saw  a  rabbit  the  day  and  it  looked  out  at 


68  MAUREEN 

me  from  its  hole  with  its  two  big  eyes  so  feeard,"  Maureen 
would  say.  "And  I  climbed  up  a  tree  and  looked  into  the 
nest  of  the  cushy  doo!" 

"And  every  rag  on  yer  body  is  torn  off  iv  ye,"  the 
mother  would  say  in  a  tone  of  gentle  remonstrance,  as  she 
caught  the  little  mite  in  her  arms  and  lifted  her  from  the 
ground.  "Ye 're  the  one  for  runnin'  about  all  wild  like  no 
girsha  else  in  the  parish.  Eileen  Conroy  never  tears  her 
clothes  like  you,  Maureen.  But  come  into  the  house  and 
I'll  make  ye  a  drop  iv  tay.  Ye '11  be  tired  and  hungry, 
me  wee  love  iv  all  the  world." 

Eileen  Conroy,  to  whom  the  mother  referred,  and  who 
had  been  Maureen's  friend  since  the  beginning  of  things, 
was  always  neat  and  tidy.  No  accidents  ever  happened  to 
Eileen 's  clothes ;  when  they  wore  out,  they  wore  out  peace- 
ably like  a  man  or  woman  who  lives  to  ripe  years  and  falls 
asleep  quietly  at  the  end.  She  never  had  a  rent  or  tear 
in  her  dress.  It  simply  wore  thin  in  places,  and  was 
patched.  "When  fringe,  flounce  or  frill  showed  the  slight- 
est trace  of  wear  they  were  sewn  neatly,  tucked  together, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  year  her  dress  with  its  repair  and 
renovation  looked  almost  as  good  as  new. 

"She's  a  rare  good  girsha  for  managing"  said  her 
mother  many  a  time  as  she  spoke  to  the  neighbors  of 
Eileen's  merits.  "Give  her  a  needle  and  a  bit  of  rag  and 
she'll  mend  anything  till  it  looks  as  good  as  new.  The 
man  that  will  have  her  when  she  grows  up  and  thinks  iv 
marryin'  will  never  have  his  bottom  out  through  his  trous- 
ers. And  the  way  she  keeps  her  books,"  the  mother  would 
add.  "At  the  heel  of  the  year  they're  as  good  and  new 
as  the  day  she  bought  them. ' ' 

But  Maureen  O'Malley's  books  never  called  for  similar 
appreciation.  At  the  end  of  a  season  they  were  always 
thumb-soiled  and  stained,  dog's-eared  and  sooty,  not  fit 
in  any  way  to  compare  with  Eileen  Conroy 's  satchel-orna- 
ments. While  Maureen  read  her  books  over  and  over  until 
the  mind  retained  every  word  that  the  soot  of  the  smoky 
cabin  had  blotted  out,  Eileen  Conroy 's  books,  like  precious 
stones,  were  objects  of  display  at  school  and  secret  treasure 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  69 

at  home  to  be  guarded  like  the  gold  of  a  miser.  Eileen 
carried  her  books  in  her  satchel,  while  Maureen  O'Malley 
carried  hers  in  her  head. 

But  despite  difference  in  disposition  the  two  girls  were 
great  friends.  Old  Betty  Conroy  was  averse  to  this  com- 
panionship at  the  start,  reminding  Eileen  times  without 
number  that  "the  girsha  of  her  up  there"  (Kathleen 
O'Malley)  "is  not  fit  company  for  any  children  that  has 
decent  parents  to  look  after  them."  But  Eileen,  who  had 
a  will  of  her  own,  vowed  that  if  she  were  not  allowed  to 
speak  to  Maureen  O'Malley  just  the  same  as  to  any  other 
person  she  would  not  go  to  school. 

"Well,  whatever  ye  like,"  said  the  mother  with  a  help- 
less gesture.  "Go  with  that  girl  if  ye  like,  but  mind  that 
I've  warned  ye  against  her." 

Old  Betty  was  a  placid  soul  whose  only  method  of  cor- 
recting her  one  child  was  by  warning  her  against  an  an- 
ticipated evil  and  hinting  at  the  trouble  which  would 
await  her  if  the  advice  was  not  followed. 

But  though  Maureen  had  a  friend  in  Eileen  at  school, 
.the  other  children,  even  the  youngest  toddler,  seemed  to 
sense  that  Maureen  possessed  a  characteristic  peculiar  to 
herself.  There  was  a  something,  probably  beyond  the  scope 
of  their  infantile  discrimination  as  yet,  which  made  a  dif- 
ference between  themselves  and  her.  Mothers  at  home  told 
their  children  not  to  play  with  that  Malley  girl,  that  no 
good  would  come  of  it  if  they  did. 

"Maw,"  said  Maureen  one  day  when  she  came  in  from 
school  and  hung  her  satchel  on  the  nail  stuck  in  the  wall 
near  the  door,  "nobody  wants  to  be  big  with  me  in  the 
school.  What's  the  reason?" 

The  mother's  face  fell. 

"Musha!  I  don't  know,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"Do  they  say  anything  to  ye  at  all?" 

' '  It  was  the  day  that  they  made  a  ring  round  me, ' '  said 
the  girl.  "And  them  dancin'  and  shoutin'  that  I  have  no 
da." 

"Ah!  God  have  mercy  on  them,  the  divils!"  said  the 
mother  angrily. 


70  MAUREEN 

"But  da's  dead,"  said  the  girl.  "He's  dead,  and  I  told 
them  that." 

"And  what  did  they  say  then?"  asked  the  mother. 

' '  They  said  that  it  was  a  lie  and  them  singing  and  laugh- 
ing and  makin'  caurs  at  me  all  the  time,"  said  the  little 
girl. 

"Don't  give  any  heed  to  what  they  say,"  said  the  mother. 
"Them  children  is  up  to  all  kinds  iv  capers,  but  it's  for 
you  to  pass  them  by  as  if  you  don't  see  them,  and  they'll 
soon  leave  you  your  lone.  Now  sit  down  and  have  your 
dinner,  for  it's  getting  cold  already." 

But  despite  the  words  of  the  mother,  Maureen,  who  was 
always  searching  out  reasons  for  everything,  kept  think- 
ing over  the  remarks  made  by  the  children  at  school,  and 
these  made  her  feel  uneasy  and  shy.  In  the  beginning 
reproach  and  obloquy  needed  the  vehicle  of  words  to  carry 
them  to  the  victim.  These  hints,  sneers  and  stings  amazed 
the  girl.  Why  were  they  directed  at  her?  She  had  never 
done  anybody  harm. 

After  a  while  the  direct  word  was  disbanded  and  in  its 
place  came  the  sly  hint,  the  sidelong  look,  the  meaning 
nudge,  curl  of  the  lip  and  raising  of  the  eyebrow,  and 
Maureen,  growing  in  years  and  sensing  the  indignity  of 
being  the  child  of  an  unmarried  mother,  felt  her  position 
keenly.  In  fact,  she  never  knew  amusement  or  content 
now  save  when  doing  her  lessons  in  her  own  home  in  com- 
pany of  her  mother,  or  when  herding  cows  on  the  brae-face 
in  the  company  of  Cathal  Cassidy,  a  neighboring  boy  of 
her  own  years,  or  Eileen  Conroy,  her  girl  friend. 

But  now  at  the  age  of  seventeen  and  long  away  from 
school  she  did  no  herding,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
stock  of  the  farm  had  dwindled  down  until  not  one  re- 
mained. The  last  was  an  old  cow,  saw-boned  and  lazy, 
out  of  which  age  had  driven  all  instincts  of  roving  and 
which  could  not  cross  a  fence  that  rose  higher  than  its 
hoof.  This  poor  animal  by  a  miracle  gave  milk  of  a  kind 
belying  the  aspect  of  the  pinched,  puckered  and  rucked 
udder  from  the  base  of  which  projected  four  miserable 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  71 

teats  no  bigger  than  warts.  In  her  fifteenth  year  the  ani- 
mal that  had  mothered  thirteen  young,  twins  thrice,  lay 
on  the  street  in  front  of  her  byre  and  died. 

When  this  happened  and  the  house  had  no  money  to  ex- 
pend in  restocking  the  byre,  Kathleen  0  'Malley  mortgaged 
her  farm.  The  letting  took  place  prior  to  the  European 
war,  and  great  difficulty  was  found  in  disposing  of  the 
place.  However,  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran,  with  an  eye 
for  land,  came  forward  and  got  the  farm  for  twenty  pounds 
and  stocked  it  with  sheep  and  young  cattle,  year-old  heifers 
and  bullocks. 

Then  happened  the  war,  carrying  its  effects,  beneficent 
or  otherwise,  into  every  nook,  corner  and  recess  of  the 
habitable  world.  Stock  rose  in  price  in  Dungarrow,  and 
Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  found  himself  a  prosperous  man. 
Nine  months  after  the  outbreak  of  war,  Kathleen  0  'Malley 
died. 


It  was  a  bright  clear  day,  the  cloudless  sky  seemed  as 
if  it  had  been  newly  cleaned  for  a  momentous  occasion, 
when  Kathleen  0 'Malley  was  carried  shoulder-high  down 
the  road  from  her  own  townland  to  the  little  graveyard 
of  Stranarachary,  the  mourners  following  at  rear.  Imme- 
diately behind  the  coffin  was  Maureen,  her  head  sunk  down 
on  her  breast  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dry  road  as  if 
seeking  there  for  something  which  she  had  lost. 

The  parish  priest,  Father  Dan,  waited  outside  the  door 
of  the  church.  He  was  a  tall,  aged  man,  whose  seventy 
years  had  done  very  little  to  hurt  a  great  body  or  dim  the 
sparkle  of  his  clear  eyes.  He  was  a  man  beloved  by  his 
parishioners,  a  good  priest  and  a  worthy  shepherd  of  his 
flock. 

When  the  service  in  the  cburch  was  at  an  end,  the  coffin 
was  borne  out  and  placed  on  the  lip  of  the  grave.  From 
near  at  hand  came  the  clink  of  money  as  the  mourners 
deposited  their  offerings  on  the  flat  surface  of  a  tombstone. 


72  MAUREEN 

When  the  offerings  were  collected,  and  the  names  of  those 
who  paid  called  out,  the  priest  came  and  stood  beside  the 
coffin. 

"Say  a  prayer  for  her  that  is  gone,"  said  Father  Dan, 
a  stray  ray  of  sunshine  lighting  his  face  as  he  spoke  and 
giving  him  a  venerable  and  saintly  appearance.  In  fact, 
according  to  his  parishioners'  estimate,  Father  Dan  was  a 
saint  already.  "Say  a  prayer  for  her  that's  gone  that  she 
may  be  released  from  her  sins.  You  are  all  listening  to 
the  clay  falling  on  her  coffin,  but  the  dead  woman  doesn't 
hear  that.  She  is  now  in  front  of  the  great  Throne  of  God, 
standin'  there  in  fear  and  trembling,  waiting  for  the  voice 
of  the  Maker  of  all.  And  just  think  of  it,  cara  yeelish, 
think  of  it  as  if  you  yourselves  were  there  and  waitin'  for 
ye  knew  not  what,  and  a  voice  reached  yer  ears  and  that 
voice  was  carryin'  a  message  to  the  Great  God,  interceding 
for  yer  soul.  Prayer  is  mighty,  it  is  the  comfort  of  the 
weary-laden,  the  solace  of  the  heavy-burdened,  it  is  the 
pleading  that  will  reach  the  heart  of  God.  Pray  when 
you  are  young,  pray  when  you  are  old ;  pray  for  the  living 
and  particularly  for  the  dead  that  they  be  released  from 
their  sins.  One  of  us  has  gone  to-day,  another  will  go  to- 
morrow or  the  day  after.  All  of  us  will  die  sooner  or  later, 
and  we'll  die  easy  if  we  prepare  for  it  now  by  prayer  that 
is  sincere,  charity  that's  not  high-handed  and  humility 
that  is  a  pattern  of  the  humility  of  the  Lord  and  Savior 
Jesus  Christ.  Prayer  is,  maybe,  the  greatest  of  all  these, 
prayer  that  isn't  a  penance  but  an  act  of  love  and  thanks 
to  God.  If  ye  don't  feel  like  prayin'  don't  pray,  for  God 
won't  listen  to  words  when  there's  no  heart  behind  them. 
Prayer  of  that  kind  is  only  a  waste  of  time,  no  good  at  all, 
just  like  a  job  that  ye  don 't  put  yer  back  into.  If  ye  can 't 
say  a  long  prayer  say  a  short  one,  and  put  yer  back  into 
it.  Be  like  the  birds  iv  heaven.  When  they  sing  they  feel 
like  a  song  and  they  make  a  good  job  of  it.  You'd  never 
say  that  a  lark,  or  a  cushy  doo,  or  a  robin  hasn't  heart  in 
it  when  they  sing.  They  have.  Then  mean  it.  And  God 
will  pay  more  heed  to  the  song  of  a  bird  than  he'll  pay 
to  the  prayer  of  people  that  sit  by  the  back  seat  of  the 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  73 

chapel,  yawning  and  wonderin'  when  the  service  will  be 
over  and  finished.  I  've  seen  that  even  here  in  Dungarrow ! 

"And  high-handed  charity,"  he  went  on.  "That's  as 
bad  as  anything  else  and  worse.  It's  everywhere,  charity 
of  that  kind.  It  drops  a  guinea  on  the  collection-plate  in 
church  with  such  a  rattle  that  one  would  think  that  the 
chapel  had  fallen  down,  it  gives  the  poor  man  a  penny 
and  a  blow  on  the  back  of  the  neck  to  make  him  not  forget 
it.  It  sees  the  sins  of  others,  and  prays  for  the  sinners  at 
times,  but  the  prayer  will  be  a  proud  one,  a  cold  one,  as 
much  as  to  say :  *  I  'm  a  respectable  person,  and  you  should 
be  glad  that  I  go  on  my  knees  for  your  sake,  and  even  God 
will  pay  more  heed  to  me  than  to  any  one  else ! '  Ah !  caret 
yeelish,  we  want  more  humility.  We're  gettin'  so  proud, 
and  even  I  meself  am  a  sinner  in  this  respect.  God  gave 
me  strength  and  a  good  pair  of  strong  legs  to  go  anywhere, 
but  I  now  and  again  get  into  a  car  and  go  along  like  a 
gentleman  of  money  while  all  the  time  I  am  nobody  bar 
the  poor  parish  priest  of  Dungarrow. 

"And  I'm  not  the  only  sinner  in  the  place.  There  are 
others.  Purse-proud,  conceited  people  who  always  are 
thinking  about  the  number  of  their  stock  and  about  their 
holdings.  After  all,  a  very  wee  holdin'  will  do  the  best 
of  them  when  they  finish  their  scrapin'  and  savin',  and 
layin'  by  of  treasure  that  the  rust  and  moth  consume.  Ah, 
cara  yeelish,  lay  not  store  here  in  this  earth,  but  in  the 
heaven  above  in  the  courts  iv  Everlasting  Glory,  where 
we'll  all  meet  one  day  when  God  sees  fit  to  call  us  to  him. 
Now,  cara  yeelish,  down  on  yer  knees  and  say  a  prayer, 
from  the  heart,  mind  you,  for  her  that's  gone  and  for  our- 
selves and  for  all  that's  in  the  world.  Mind  ye,  the  Son 
of  God  will  listen  to  Dungarrow  from  the  graveside 
just  in  the  same  way  as  he  listens  to  it  from  the 
chapel." 

Homely  tenets  such  as  these,  born  of  parable  that  had 
its  root  in  local  incident  and  custom,  endeared  Father  Dan 
to  the  people.  They  felt  that  he  was  one  of  themselves  and 
they  were  ready  to  do  anything  he  desired.  As  one  of 
themselves,  a  native  of  the  parish,  he  knew  his  people. 


74  MAUREEN 

m 

In  his  youth,  the  youngest  boy  of  a  family  of  twelve, 
studious  and  with  a  leaning  towards  the  clerical  calling, 
he  did  not  see  the  way  to  vocation  clear  until  he  was  seven- 
teen. 

At  that  time  all  his  elder  brothers  were  away  in  other 
countries  working  at  various  jobs,  and  Dan  McCabe  was 
also  on  the  way  there  with  his  bundle  and  reaping-hook 
on  his  shoulder  when  his  opportunity  came.  Just  after 
his  departure  from  his  father 's  house  a  letter  arrived  from 
America,  and  this  letter  contained  fifty  pounds  with  the 
behest  to  the  father  to  throw  Dan  into  college  and  make  a 
priest  of  him.  The  father  was  overjoyed.  It  was  his  life- 
long dream  to  have  a  priest  in  the  family. 

Putting  his  letter  in  his  pocket  he  saddled  his  horse 
and  rode  after  his  son,  who  now,  tramping  the  road  with 
four  hours'  start,  was  on  the  way  to  the  Derry  boat.  When 
he  overtook  him,  waving  the  letter  as  if  it  were  a  reprieve 
from  the  hangman's  rope, 

"Dan,"  he  said,  and  the  tears  rolled  from  the  father's 
cheeks,  "throw  yer  hook  and  yer  bundle  into  the  sheuch 
and  come  back  with  me.  Fifty  pounds  in  this  letter  from 
the  boys,  God  bless  them !  and  they  want  ye  to  go  into  col- 
lege. Corduroy's  not  for  the  clergy,  Dan,  neither  is  the 
hook.  Throw  yer  bundle  into  the  sheuch  and  up  in  the 
pillion  at  me  back  with  ye  and  we'll  go  home  together." 

The  two  men  went  back  on  the  horse,  Dan  carrying  his 
hook  and  bundle  until  he  met  a  poor  woman  to  whom  he 
handed  them.  She  thanked  the  youngster  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  wished  him  Godspeed,  the  best  of  everything  in 
this  life  and  the  next. 

"And  I  wanted  ye  to  throw  them  into  the  sheuch,"  said 
the  father.  "And  if  ye  did  what  I  said  ye'd  never  get 
that  blessing." 

When  Father  McCabe  was  ordained  he  came  back  to  his 
native  parish  and  took  up  his  work  as  a  healer  of  souls. 
He  was  then  a  young  man,  fond  of  a  gun  on  the  moors  and 
a  fly  in  the  streams,  an  ordinary  young  priest,  a  man  who 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  75 

could  give  a  learned  sermon  in  which  he  took  pardonable 
pride,  but  which  never  reached  the  heart  of  his  congrega- 
tion. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1889,  the  zenith  of  the  Land 
League  troubles,  and  when  feeling  ran  high  through  the 
country,  that  an  incident  occurred  which  had  a  great  effect 
in  altering  the  outlook  of  the  man,  in  opening  his  eyes  to 
a  world  in  which  he  lived  but  did  not  see. 

Father  Dan  was  out  on  the  moors  one  day  with  his  gun, 
his  gamebag  full  and  his  stomach  empty.  Regarding  this 
condition  of  body  the  man  was  pleased.  Hunger  was  such 
a  sauce  for  the  meal  which  his  servant  would  have  ready 
when  he  got  back  to  his  snug  cottage.  Shooting  was  a 
splendid  pastime;  it  braced  the  body,  livened  the  blood 
and  strengthened  the  physical  side  of  the  man.  Father 
Dan  was  a  fine  healthy  animal,  and  though  forty  years  old 
his  age  weighed  lightly  on  his  shoulders.  Now,  however, 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  having  been  wandering 
on  the  hills  since  nine  in  the  morning,  he  felt  very  weary. 

"It's  time  to  get  home,"  he  said.  "Nancy  will  be 
waitin'  to  give  me  supper.  Ah!  but  what's  that?" 

It  was  a  moorhen  in  a  clump  of  heather  that  the  priest 
sighted.  Raising  his  gun  to  his  shoulder  he  fired,  missed 
the  moorhen,  but  hit  a  sheep  which  was  lying  behind  a 
clump  of  furze.  The  poor  animal  got  to  its  feet,  ran  a 
few  paceSj  staggered  and  dropped  dead.  Just  at  the  same 
moment  a  man  rose  from  the  ground.  After  a  day's  hard 
work,  this  man,  Phelim  Donnely,  was  lying  down  resting 
on  the  heather.  On  hearing  the  shot  he  got  to  his  feet 
and  noticed  that  one  of  his  sheep  stock,  a  ram,  had  been 
shot  by  the  priest.  Furious  with  rage,  the  man  rushed 
up  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  priest's  face. 

"Is  that  all  that  ye've  to  do,  Father  Dan?"  he  yelled. 
"Gaddin'  about  and  bio  win'  the  brains  out  iv  the  stock  iv 
dacent  men.  It's  a  shame  and  a  disgrace — and  the  breed 
iv  that  ram  too.  One  iv  the  best,  the  best  in  the  parish!" 

"But,  my  good  man,  don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart," 
said  the  priest  coldly,  for  he  was  rather  offended  at  being 
addressed  in  such  a  manner  by  one  of  the  peasantry. 


76  MAUREEN 

"Money  will  tide  ye  over  this  time  and  ye  can  get  as  good 
a  sheep  at  the  next  fair." 

"  Twas  a  ram  and  not  a  sheep,"  Phelim  corrected  sul- 
lenly. "And  another  iv  the  same  breed  never  carried  its 
wool  to  a  Dungarrow  fair." 

"Well,  don't  make  a  song  about  it,"  said  the  priest. 
"Tell  me  how  much  it's  worth  to  ye  and  let  me  get  home." 
With  these  words  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  rattled 
the  change  which  it  contained. 

"Yes,  rattle  yer  money  and  say  it's  all  right,"  roared 
Phelim,  who  did  not  like  Father  Dan.  "Rattle  yer  gold, 
that  ye've  taken  from  us  in  offerin's  and  stipends  and 
plate-money!  Some  priests  will  do  the  best  that  they  can 
for  the  poor  people,  like  Father  McFadden  iv  Gweedore, 
that 's  now  in  prison  because  he  stood  up  for  the  poor.  But 
nothin'  iv  that  for  yerself,  Father  Dan.  It's  the  quality 
for  ye,  and  the  shootin'  and  the  fishin'  and  all  the  people 
in  the  country  starvin'  with  not  a  bite  to  put  in  their 
mouths  maybe  and  yerself  with  the  good  fire  when  there's 
hardly  a  dry  turf  in  the  parish.  An'  now  ye  blow  the 
head  off  iv  me  ram  and  .  .  .  and  ye  should  be  shamed  iv 
yerself.  God  forgive  me  for  talkin'  t'ye  like  this,  Father 
Dan,  but  it's  me  ram  and  the  only  one  I've  got,  bar  two 
sheep,  and  the  rent  due  and  no  sparin's  come  the  next  har- 
vest fair.  And  herself  in  the  bed  at  home  with  the  sick- 
ness on  her  and  a  cough  that's  like  the  decline." 

The  words  of  the  angry  man  cut  the  heart  of  the  priest, 
and  froze  the  very  marrow  of  his  being.  Like  Paul  on  the 
road  to  Damascus  he  had  his  vision  and  suddenly  realized 
that  the  easy  time,  the  soft  bed  and  the  full  meals  were 
not  in  keeping  with  his  vocation,  that  he  was  a  mean  and 
vile  parasite  living  on  the  sweat  of  the  poor  parishioners. 
He  saw,  as  in  a  nightmare,  Phelim 's  wife  lying  in  her 
poor  bed  with  the  sickness  on  her  and  a  cough  that  is  like 
the  decline,  while  here  was  he,  a  strong  man,  hale  and 
healthy,  roving  through  the  hills  cultivating  an  appetite 
for  his  dinner.  The  incongruity  of  his  position,  the  shep- 
herd feeding  while  the  flock  starved,  struck  him  like  a 
violent  blow.  He  was  judged  and  found  wanting,  and  there 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  77 

the  Judge  stood  opposite  him,  Phelim  Donnely,  in  rags  and 
tatters,  hatless  and  shoeless,  vindicating  a  just  censure  and 
apologizing  for  it  in  the  same  breath. 

Taking  his  gamebag  from  his  shoulder  the  priest  handed 
it  to  Phelim  Donnely. 

"Forgive  me,  Phelim,  and  take  this  bag  with  ye,"  he 
said  impetuously.  "Give  your  wife  and  weans  a  good 
meal.  I'll  come  round  and  see  you  to-night  before  bed- 
time. I'll  pay  for  the  ram,  and,  Phelim  Donnely,"  he 
added,  "ye've  done  more  for  me  this  evening  than  ye  know. 
Ye've  made  me  see  things,  Phelim  Donnely.  Ye've  taught 
yer  priest  his  duty  and  from  now  on  I'm  going  to  see  to 
it.  ...  And  this  gun,"  he  added,  "take  it.  And  maybe 
it's  a  rabbit  or  a  hare  that  ye  can  shoot  when  ye 're  doin' 
nothin'  else  in  the  evenin'.  And  a  rabbit  or  hare  makes 
a  fine  meal  for  a  sick  person." 

He  handed  the  fowling-piece  to  Phelim,  and  without 
another  word  he  walked  down  the  hills  toward  his  own 
home.  Phelim,  utterly  aghast,  stared  after  the  priest,  be- 
lieving that  the  man  had  suddenly  gone  mad. 

Then  began  a  new  life  for  the  priest.  He  got  to  know 
his  poor,  went  about  the  country  always  on  foot,  visiting 
the  needy,  and  that  meant  every  one,  for  the  richest  in 
his  parish  depended  on  the  whim  of  a  season  and  the  tem- 
per of  a  sky.  A  wet  spring  on  the  bogland  meant  a  fireless 
hearth  in  winter ;  a  bad  summer  meant  bad  crops,  ruin  and 
starvation.  From  these  hardships  none  was  immune:  not 
even  the  priest  who  now  cultivated  a  garden  of  his  own 
and  with  his  own  hands  planted  his  potatoes  and  corn. 

"Think  iv  yerself  workin'  like  one  iv  us,"  said  a  peasant 
to  him  one  day  as  Father  Dan,  with  his  sleeves  thrust  up 
and  his  shirt-collar  unbuttoned,  was  setting  a  ridge  of 
potatoes. 

"Well,  it's  not  every  one  that  has  the  chance  to  learn 
a  trade  like  the  Carpenter  of  Nazareth,"  said  the  priest. 

On  another  occasion  when  a  woman,  who  met  him  coming 
in  from  the  hill  with  a  creel  of  turf,  remarked  that  it  was 
too  heavy  a  load  to  put  on  his  shoulders,  the  priest  looked 
at  her. 


78  MAUEEEN 

"Sally  Rourke,"  he  said  with  the  slightest  trace  of 
humor  kindling  his  eye,  "  there  was  once  a  Man  who  car- 
ried a  heavier  load  to  save  the  sinners  of  the  world,  not 
like  me  to  keep  Himself  warm  and  comfortable  when  the 
journey  comes  to  an  end." 

As  he  grew  older  and  his  hair  became  whiter,  a  look  of 
sanctity  developed  on  his  face.  The  peasantry  would  not 
be  surprised  to  come  to  Mass  one  Sunday  and  find  a  halo 
round  his  head,  such  as  could  be  seen  on  the  head  of  Saint 
Joseph  over  the  sacristy-door.  To  all  he  was  a  saint,  and 
they  knew  that  when  he  died  he  would  go  straight  up  to 
heaven. 

He  counseled  the  erring,  consoled  the  suffering,  spoke 
words  of  cheer  and  faith  to  the  weary.  He  would  often 
rise  early  in  the  morning,  don  his  heaviest  boots  and  tramp 
miles  across  the  hills  to  the  most  outlying  habitations  in 
his  parish,  to  show  the  dwellers  that  their  parish  priest 
had  not  forgotten  them. 

"It's  a  poor  house  for  yer  Reverence  to  come  into,"  the 
woman  of  the  house  would  say  as  she  wiped  a  chair  with 
her  apron  and  handed  it  to  him.  "It's  like  a  byre." 

"Indeed  and  it's  not,  good  woman,"  he  would  reply. 
"But  if  it  is,  it's  just  the  same  sort  of  place  that  saw  the 
birth  of  our  Lord  and  Savior,  Jesus  Christ. ' ' 

He  went  out  on  these  visits  with  his  pockets  filled  with 
gingerbread  and  pennies.  When  he  met  little  barefooted 
boys  and  girls  he  would  give  them  from  the  stock  in  his 
pocket.  As  he  grew  older  and  became  a  little  absent- 
minded,  the  youngsters  preyed  on  his  generosity.  Some- 
times'  on  one  journey  he  would  meet  a  little  rascal  three 
times.  This  youngster  on  getting  a  penny  at  Meenarood 
would  scoot  across  the  braes  and  confront  the  old  man 
again  at  Meenaroodagh.  Here,  the  priest,  forgetting  that 
he  had  met  the  boy  before,  would  give  a  second  penny.  In 
this  way  many  a  young  profiteer  took  advantage  of  Father 
Dan's  generosity. 

Another  stratagem  in  which  the  wily  youth  delighted 
was  this:  In  the  highly  walled  and  strongly  fenced  gar- 
den adjoining  his  home  a  number  of  apple-trees  grew. 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  79 

The  old  man  took  great  delight  in  his  garden ;  in  his  spare 
time  he  pruned  the  trees,  clipped  the  hedgerows  and  tended 
the  flowers.  When  the  apples  ripened  he  gave  them  to  the 
parishioners.  Even  this  did  not  save  the  garden  from  the 
depredations  of  youthful  malefactors.  Long  before  the 
fruit  ripened  they  came  in  the  early  mornings,  crawled 
over  the  wall  and  stole  the  apples.  Father  Dan  became 
aware  of  this  and  one  morning  he  got  up  from  his  bed  and 
stole  quietly  into  the  garden.  Here  he  found  every  tree 
with  its  thief,  every  branch  with  its  bag,  into  which  the 
youngsters  were  piling  the  green,  uneatable  apples.  For 
a  moment  he  looked  on,  then  one  youngster  saw  him  and 
with  a  shriek  he  dropped  from  the  tree  and  ran  to  the  wall 
and  clambered  over  it.  The  others  followed.  Only  one 
was  left,  a  bare-legged,  curly-headed  boy  who  had  climbed 
up  too  far  and  found  it  difficult  to  get  down.  He  was 
terror-stricken  at  the  sight  of  the  white-haired  priest. 
Father  Dan  was  also  scared  lest  the  boy  in  his  fright 
should  jump  to  the  ground  and  break  his  neck. 

"Easy,  my  boy,  easy,"  he  called.  "One  branch  at  a 
time  or  ye '11  tear  all  yer  clothes,  and  what  will  yer  mother 
say  to  ye  when  ye  go  home  ? ' ' 

The  youngster  reached  the  ground  blubbering.  Father 
Dan  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"Now  don't  cry,"  he  said.  "Just  wipe  yer  eyes  and  be 
a  man.  Which  bag  is  yours?  This  one?  Well,  take  it 
away  home  with  ye,  and  the  apples  that  are  in  it!  Now 
ye 're  cryin'  yet.  What's  wrong  with  you?" 

"I'm  feeard,"  blubbered  the  rascal. 

"Well,  here's  a  penny  for  ye,"  said  the  good-hearted 
priest.  "And  run  away  home.  And  I  '11  not  tell  yer  mother 
on  you.  But  tell  the  other  boys  that  green  apples  are 
bad,  that  they're  full  of  poison,  and  in  addition  to  that 
tell  them  that  whoever  eats  green  apples  will  go  to  hell 
when  they  die." 

This  the  boy  told  to  his  chums  and  showed  them  the 
penny  which  was  his  simply  because  he  was  last  in  the 
race.  The  children  took  the  lesson  to  heart  and  for  weeks 
following,  Father  Dan  found  many  children  on  his  apple- 


80  MAUREEN 

trees,  who  crawled  down  weeping  and  vowed  that  they 
cried  because  they  were  afraid  of  him.  So  by  subterfuge 
and  stratagem  such  as  this  Father  Dan  was  relieved  of 
many  of  his  pennies. 

He  was  arbiter  in  disputes  relating  to  land,  march 
ditches,  boundaries,  trespass,  right  of  way,  letting  of  graz- 
ing-grounds,  bog-rents,  diversion  of  water-courses  and 
rights  of  common  property.  The  priest  did  everything; 
settled  quarrels,  brought  the  peasants'  worries  in  front  of 
the  avaricious  landlord,  pleaded  on  their  behalf,  cleared 
the  muddy  waters  where  lawyers  catch  their  best  fish, 
gave  judgment  on  this  and  that  and  was  obeyed.  His  word 
was  law  in  his  parish.  Between  man  and  man  he  was  an 
arbiter  of  peace,  a  bond  of  union  and  hope  between  man 
and  God. 

IV 

The  old,  white-haired  priest  lifted  the  collection  from 
the  tombstone,  wrapped  it  in  a  woolen  muffler  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  Then  he  looked  round  at  the  assembled 
parishioners,  at  the  two  men  filling  in  the  newly  made 
grave,  at  the  women  with  frilled  caps  and  white  clouds 
who  were  kneeling  here  and  there  on  the  greensward, 
praying  for  relatives  who  lay  below.  Peggy  Ribbig  was 
there,  barefooted  and  bent,  telling  the  beads,  holding  them 
in  one  hand  and  drawing  them  through,  one  by  one,  with 
the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  the  other,  looking  for  all  the 
world  as  if  she  were  breaking  a  crumb  of  bread  and  drop- 
ping it  to  an  imaginary  clutch  of  chickens.  She  was  pray- 
ing for  her  father  and  mother,  both  dead  for  close  on  thirty 
years.  Now  and  then  she  bent  lower  to  the  ground,  twisted 
her  neck  round  ever  so  slightly  and  stole  a  surreptitious 
glance  at  the  parish  priest.  "Just  the  same  as  myself," 
she  thought.  "And  the  two  iv  us  will  both  be  under  the 
clay  one  day  and  not  very  long  till  that,  God  help  us." 

Probably  Father  Dan  had  similar  thoughts  himself,  but 
being  a  good  and  worthy  man  gave  himself  very  little 
trouble  about  the  future.  One  day  he  would  die,  soon 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  81 

probably,  but  why  should  he  trouble  about  such  a  little 
matter  as  this?  "It's  all  the  same,"  he  thought.  "When 
God  wills  it  we  go,  and  not  before.  If  we're  wanted  we'll 
be  taken,  and  it's  our  duty  to  prepare  always  for  that  mo- 
ment." 

He  waited  at  the  gate  till  Maureen  O'Malley,  who  knelt 
over  the  grave  long  after  the  others  departed,  came  towards 
him,  her  head  bent  and  the  tears  running  from  her  eyes. 
When  she  reached  the  priest  she  stopped,  her  whole  frame 
shaking  with  sobs.  For  a  moment  the  old  man  looked  at 
the  girl,  then  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Now  wipe  yer  eyes,  dear  child,"  he  said  with  feeling. 
"There  is  nothing  to  weep  for.  This  day  to  your  mother 
is  the  greatest  day  of  all.  She  is  where  we  will  all  be  one 
day.  Fortified  by  the  rites  of  the  church,  she  died  a  good 
and  holy  death.  You  have  your  own  life  to  think  of  now, 
and  when  you  pray  for  the  saint  that's  dead,  remember 
to  pray  for  yourself  that  your  own  end  may  be  as  peace- 
ful, when  it  comes  to  the  time,  as  your  mother's  was." 

Maureen  looked  at  him,  taking  her  hands  away  from  her 
eyes  and  uncovering  her  face.  He  could  see  her  features 
swollen  with  weeping,  the  tears  marking  their  course  on 
the  maiden's  cheeks. 

"I  don't  want  to  live  any  longer,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
of  anguish,  and  covered  her  face  again.  "There's  nothin' 
now  for  me,  nothin'  in  all  the  wide  world." 

"There's  much  for  ye  yet,"  said  Father  Dan  in  a  low, 
solemn  tone.  "You  have  your  own  young  life  in  front  iv 
you,  and  that's  everything.  Death  will  be,  and  people  must 
go  when  they're  called  on.  The  day  or  the  morrow  and 
it's  all  the  same.  God  calls  us,  Maureen  my  child,  when 
the  season  comes.  Pray  for  the  dead  and  for  yourself  too, 
and  God  bless  you,  my  child,  God  bless  ye!" 

The  old  man  held  his  hand  over  the  girl  in  benediction 
and  a  tear  rolled  from  his  eye.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
thus,  then  dropping  his  arm  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  drew  out  the  muffler  in  which  the  offerings  were  rolled. 
With  the  muffler  he  wiped  his  eyes. 


82  MAUREEN 

"Yes,  Maureen  my  child,"  he  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
voice  which  was  apparently  the  preliminary  to  a  question. 
"Yes,  Maureen,  and  how  are  you  off  on  it?" 

"Poorly,  father,"  said  the  girl. 

"With  not  a  penny?"  interrogated  the  priest. 

"Not  a  penny,"  Maureen  replied. 

"Now  I'm  goin'  to  ask  you  a  couple  iv  questions,  Mau- 
reen," said  the  priest.  "The  first  is:  what's  your  age?" 

"Seventeen  past,"  said  the  girl. 

"And  have  you  a  boy  at  all?"  he  went  on,  interlocking 
his  fingers  and  twirling  his  thumbs  over  the  money-muf- 
fler which  lay  in  the  cup  of  his  hands.  His  thick  stick 
was  stuck  under  his  arm,  and  he  fixed  his  grave  eyes  on 
the  girl. 

"No,  father,"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  I  suppose  it's  too  early  for  that  yet,"  said  the 
old  man.  "And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  yourself 
now?" 

"God  knows,"  said  Maureen,  with  a  helpless  down-throw 
of  both  hands.  "Maybe  it's  beyont  the  mountains  that 
I'll  be  goin'." 

"Away  from  the  parish?"  asked  the  priest. 

"I  hate  the  parish,"  said  the  girl  impetuously.  "I  want 
to  get  away  from  it  and  them  that's  in  it." 

"Away  from  us  all?"  said  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  father,"  Maureen  replied.  "I've  money  to  make 
to  pay  for  the  coffin  and  the  bread  and  tea  at  the  wake  and 
other  things  as  well.  And  I  can't  have  it  ever  said  that  I 
let  my  mother  die  and  me  not  paying  what  it  took  to  bury 
her,  God  rest  her." 

"God  rest  her!"  repeated  the  priest.  "And  you've  in 
mind  to  sell  the  farm?" 

"No,  father,"  said  the  girl.  "Maybe  I'll  come  back 
again,  but  anyway  I  '11  keep  it,  as  'twill  be  always  something 
to  put  me  in  mind  of  her  that's  gone." 

"Poor  child,"  said  the  priest  with  a  sigh.  "Here,"  he 
went  on,  handing  the  muffler  and  its  contents  to  the  girl. 
' '  Take  this  and  it  will  help  you  a  little  to  make  ends  meet, 
and  if  you're  of  the  same  mind  to  go  away  the  morrow, 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  83 

let  me  have  another  talk  with  you  and  the  two  iv  us  will 
see  what  can  be  done." 

"Thank  ye,  father,  but  I  don't  want  it,"  said  Maureen, 
thrusting  back  the  money  which  the  priest  had  offered  her. 
"I've  two  strong  hands,  and  I'll  be  able  to  work  for  my 
livin '  beyont  the  mountains,  and  I  '11  be  able,  as  well,  to  put 
money  by.  There's  wages  to  be  made  over  there  now  and 
the  war  on." 

The  man  fixed  a  look  on  the  girl,  a  grave,  commanding 
glance  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  sympathy  of  a  moment 
before. 

"You  know  who  I  am  and  what  I  am,  Maureen,"  he 
said.  "You  know  that  I'm  yer  parish  priest,  and  God 
saw  fit  to  place  me  over  you  and  guide  your  feet  in  the  way 
they  should  go.  I've  asked  you  to  keep  that  trifle  money 
and  you've  refused.  It's  for  your  own  good  that  I'm  doin' 
it.  Now  I  order  you  to  take  it" — he  shoved  the  muffler 
into  her  hand  again — ' '  and  God  bless  you,  Maureen  O  'Mai- 
ley,  and  look  over  you  all  the  days  iv  your  life." 

His  voice  broke  and  his  lips  quivered  with  emotion.  He 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then,  waving  his  hand  to  the 
girl,  bidding  good-by,  he  walked  away. 

That  evening  Maureen  O'Malley  paid  Paddy  Keefe,  the 
local  grocer,  for  the  bread,  tea  and  sugar  supplied  for  the 
wake,  and  Hughie  Neddy  Fury,  the  carpenter,  for  the 
coffin  in  which  the  dead  was  buried ;  and  now  fronting  the 
world  all  on  her  own,  she  had  nothing  to  aid  her  in  the 
great  struggle  save  her  strong  hands  and  the  indomitable 
spirit  with  which  Nature  had  filled  her  being. 


It  was  the  day  following  the  funeral  of  her  mother,  and 
Maureen  O'Malley  was  returning  from  the  shop  of  Paddy 
Keefe,  where  she  had  been  purchasing  some  provisions. 

On  the  road  she  met  Columb  R-uagh  Keeran,  his  coat  off, 
his  red  shirt  open  at  the  neck.  In  his  mouth  he  held  a 
little  clay  pipe,  the  bowl  empty  and  turned  down.  A  bag 
which  he  carried  on  his  back  he  placed  down  on  the  road 


84  MAUREEN 

on  meeting  the  girl.  Something  was  moving  inside  it,  a 
sucker  probably,  for  the  day  was  the  one  on  which  the 
monthly  fair  of  Stranarachary  was  held,  and  Columb 
Ruagh,  who  had  a  potheen-distillery  up  on  the  hills,  fed 
pigs  on  vat-sediment  and  the  dregs  of  still  singlings. 

"Well,  good  day  to  ye,  Maureen  O'Malley,"  he  said  to 
the  girl,  fixing  a  sharp,  penetrating  look  on  her  and  spit- 
ting through  his  teeth  on  the  ground.  "I  was  just  goin' 
up  to  see  ye,  but  now  that  we  meet  here  we  can  have  a 
talk.  It's  about  the  bit  iv  business  that  me  and  yer  mother 
had  before  she  died,  God  rest  her." 

"About  the  mortgage?"  Maureen  inquired  in  a  whis- 
per, amazed  that  any  one  should  talk  to  her  of  business  so 
soon  after  her  mother's  death. 

"That's  it,"  said  Columb  Ruagh  in  a  slow,  quiet  voice. 
"It's  only  a  wee  thing  in  itself,  but  the  Lord  knows  when 
I'll  be  comin'  down  this  way  again  and  me  with  so  much 
work  to  do  up  there  be  the  Crinnan  cross-roads  and  havin' 
no  one  at  all  to  help  me. ' ' 

"That's  true,"  Maureen  assented  sadly.  "Me  and  yer- 
self  are  just  in  the  same  boat  almost.  Not  one  iv  us  has 
anybody  to  help  us." 

"But  I'm  far  worse  off  than  yerself,  Maureen,"  said 
Columb,  with  a  condescending  smirk.  Convinced  that  all 
mankind  was  like  himself  not  over-honest  he  always  was 
on  the  look-out  for  the  snare  in  a  neighbor's  action.  "I'm 
an  old  man  as  it  is,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  soon  be  past  work, 
but  as  for  yerself,  Maureen,  ye  are  a  young  girsha  with 
the  men  on  the  run  after  ye,  and  it'll  be  soon  that  ye '11 
be  gettin'  a  man  to  take  care  iv  ye  and  set  up  a  grand  house 
with  clelf  on  the  dresser  and  a  taypot  there  and  it  full  iv 
money." 

"Well,  it's  not  in  me  to  be  thinkin'  iv  gettin'  married  on 
a  man  as  yet  and  my  mother  only  buried  yesterday,"  said 
the  girl,  wondering  what  Columb  was  driving  at.  Never 
was  he  known  to  speak  kindly  to  anybody  save  when  try- 
ing to  get  something  to  his  own  advantage. 

"It  was  sorry  that  I  was  to  hear  about  yer  mother's 
death,  God  rest  her,  and  I  didn't  know  it  till  late  last  night 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  85 

so  that  I  had  no  time  to  come  to  the  funeral,"  said  the 
man,  lying  as  Maureen  knew.  He  did  not  come  to  the 
funeral  simply  because  he  grudged  paying  offerings.  "  It 's 
for  yer  poor  mother,  God  rest  her,  that  I  always  had  the 
highest  notion.  She  was  one  iv  the  Glen  people  that  I 
could  trust  above  any  one  else,  and,  Maureen  O'Malley, 
didn't  I  show  it  when  I  loaned  her  money  on  the  land? 
Twenty  gold  pounds  it  was,  and  the  farm,  as  ye  know  yer- 
self,  is  not  much  security  for  that  sum  iv  money.  Twenty 
pounds  in  gold  takes  a  lot  iv  scraping  and  saving  when 
all  is  said  and  done." 

"That's  true,"  Maureen  assented.  "But  with  the  war 
on  and  the  stock  goin'  up  in  price,  ye  didn't  stand  to  lose 
much,  Columb  Ruagh." 

"Well,  if  I  make  a  wee  bit,  and  it  is  a  wee  bit,  'twas 
all  chance  from  the  start,"  said  Columb,  changing  his  un- 
lighted  pipe  from  one  corner  of  the  mouth  to  the  other. 
"One  never  knows  what  is  goin'  to  happen  with  stock. 
Maybe  it's  the  staggers,  the  muirill,  or  the  red  water  that 
they're  goin'  to  take  and  then  it's  good-by  to  all  that  ye've 
spent  on  them." 

Maureen  fixed  a  pitiful  glance  on  the  man.  What  he 
was  saying  did  not  particularly  interest  her.  A  feeling  of 
emptiness,  apathy  and  indifference  filled  her  breast.  The 
keen  edge  of  anguish  had  become  blunt  and  she  was  now 
looking  into  a  black  void  where  nothing  tangible  existed, 
not  a  gleam  of  comfort  or  ray  of  hope.  The  man  standing 
in  front  of  her  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  a  thick  vapor;  the 
bag  on  the  ground  became  lost  to  view.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Now,  don't  be  cryin',"  said  Columb,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "People  have  to  go  when  their  time  comes, 
and  them  that's  left  has  to  live  and  make  the  best  of  it.  I 
knew  yer  mother,  and  a  good  woman  she  was,  hard  at  a 
bargain.  And  mind  ye  I  respected  her  for  that.  Always 
for  me  the  person  that  drives  a  hard  bargain,  that  won't 
take  a  baste  without  warranty  or  a  butt  iv  butter  without 
puttin'  the  auger  through  it.  Them  for  me  always,  for 
I  'm  a  man  like  that,  Maureen  0  'Malley.  But  now  that  yer 


86  MAUREEN 

mother  is  gone  all  the  cryin'  in  the  wide  world  won't  take 
her  back  again,  and  them  that's  left  have  to  fend  for  them- 
selves. Now,  Maureen  O  'Malley,  what  d  'ye  say  to  it  ? " 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  hit  the  empty  bowl 
against  his  palm  and  put  it  back  in  his  mouth  again. 
Screwing  down  his  eyebrows  he  fixed  a  calculating  glance 
on  the  girl.  Maureen,  with  feet  bare,  her  toes  half  buried 
in  the  dust  of  the  roadway,  and  her  shawl  wrapped  tightly 
around  her  shoulders,  sobbed  with  her  bosom  shaking  and 
her  whole  body  quivering  with  the  violence  of  her  anguish. 
She  had  no  friend  in  all  the  world  now,  none.  This  one 
thought  burned  into  her  heart  like  a  red-hot  iron,  sharp 
as  a  knife  and  as  painful. 

"Well,  what  d'ye  say  to  it,  Maureen  O 'Malley?"  asked 
Columb  again.  "It's  for  yer  own  good,  mind,  so  what 
do  ye  say  to  it?" 

"To  what?"  asked  the  girl  mechanically,  then  added  in 
a  tone  of  protest,  "I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  any- 
thing now,  Columb  Ruagh.  Come  the  morrow  or  the  day 
after,  and  maybe  I'll  be  able  to  talk  to  ye." 

"But,  just  a  minute,"  said  Columb  coaxingly.  "It's 
just  a  wee  bit  iv  business  between  the  two  iv  us.  About 
the  mortgage.  Just  listen.  When  yer  mother,  God  rest 
her!  went  bare,  twelve  months  ago,  she  came  and  told  me 
that  she  wanted  to  mortgage  her  bit  iv  land.  She  asked 
so  much  and  I  offered  her  so  much,  a  good  tidy  sum,  and 
me  a  poor  man.  She  took  it,  money  down  and  the  farm 
was  mine  till  she  could  pay  me  back  the  good  round  sum 
that  I  gave  her.  Listen,  Maureen.  The  farm  is  mine  now. 
I've  the  good  will  iv  it  till  I'm  paid  back  what's  owing 
me.  Now  ye  can't  pay  back  the  money,  Maureen  0 'Mal- 
ley." 

"That  I  cannot,"  said  the  girl. 

"Then  listen,"  said  the  man,  beaming  as  if  in  anticipa- 
tion of  a  good  bargain.  "  It 's  a  plan  that  I  '11  put  afore  ye, 
and  ye '11  be  the  gainer  iv  it  and  not  me.  The  times  are 
hard,  no  man  in  the  place  can  be  got  to  do  a  day's  work 
for  either  love  or  money  now.  Ye,  yerself,  can't  do  the 
work  iv  the  bit  iv  farm,  Maureen,  can  ye?" 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  87 

"No,  Columb.  I'm  afeeard  that  I  can't,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  sigh.  "If  I  get  the  men  to  work  I  can't  pay  them 
afore  the  heel  iv  the  year,  and  then  maybe  the  crops  will 
be  bad." 

"That's  true,"  said  Columb,  in  a  tone  sympathetically 
cruel.  "The  seasons  may  be  bad,  and  then  ye  haven't  the 
stock  to  put  on  and  make  a  bit  be  the  grazing.  It 's  a  farm 
for  stock  and  not  for  crops.  Pratees  are  no  good  on  it, 
for  they  get  the  worms  and  the  dry  rot.  So  what  are  ye 
to  do?  Sell  it?" 

"That  I  won't,"  said  the  girl  emphatically.  "If  I  sell 
it  I'll  have  nothin'  left  at  all." 

"And  as  it  is  there's  not  much  left  anyway,"  said  the 
man  hurriedly.  "What  would  be  the  best  thing  for  ye 
to  do,  Maureen  O'Malley,  would  be  to  sell  some  iv  the 
holdin ',  that  corner  up  near  me  at  the  Crinnan  cross-roads, 
and  let  the  rest.  Listen,  Maureen, ' ' — he  took  a  step  nearer 
to  the  girl — "there's  one  way  and  the  best  in  the  world 
that  I'll  put  afore  ye.  I'll  buy  that  piece  iv  waste  land 
that's  no  good  for  anything  bar  the  feedin'  iv  hares  and 
moorhens,  up  be  the  Crinnan  cross-roads.  I'll  give  ye 
twenty  gold  pounds  for  it,  the  money  that  ye 're  owin'  me 
for  the  loan  that's  on  the  farm  down  here.  Then  all  is 
square  and  above-board.  I  keep  that  plot  iv  land  and  ye 
have  yer  farm  free.  I  wouldn't  do  that  for  anybody  else 
in  the  parish,  Maureen.  So  now  say  the  word,  Maureen, 
and  we'll  call  it  a  bargain."  He  spoke  in  a  hurried  whis- 
per and  looked  round  as  if  afraid  that  some  one  was  listen- 
ing. 

"Then  it's  yers,  Columb  Kuagh,"  the  girl  blindly  ac- 
quiesced, scarcely  knowing  what  she  said.  "Ye  can  have 
it,  for  I  don't  see  what's  the  use  iv  me  keepin'  it  and  it 
no  good  at  all.  I'm  sick  and  tired  iv  the  place,  anyway. 
I'll  maybe  be  goin'  away  on  the  twelfth  to  the  hirin'-fair 
iv  Strabane  and  get  me  hand  in  on  a  farm.  The  girls 
that's  down  at  the  butt  iv  the  parish  go  way  there  every 
twelfth  iv  May  and  I  may  as  well  go  as  stay  here,  Columb 
Ruagh." 

"Indeed,  and  ye  could  do  worse,"  said  the  man,  his 


88  MAUREEN 

eye  lighting  up  as  if  he  saw  another  opportunity  of  profit- 
ing by  the  girl's  helplessness.  "Ye  could  do  worse  and 
far  and  away  worse.  There 's  many  a  snug  openin '  beyont 
the  mountains  now  with  the  wages  goin'  up  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  Mark  that,  Maureen,  goin'  up  and  be  leaps  and 
bounds."  He  spoke  slowly,  watching  the  effects  of  his 
words  on  the  girl 's  face.  ' '  By  leaps  and  bounds, ' '  he  went 
on.  "And  all  found  into  the  bargain  and  the  hours  short 
as  well.  All  because  iv  the  war  abroad,  too.  It  has  done 
the  country  a  power  iv  good,  at  least  for  them  that's  full 
iv  stock.  They  can  get  any  price  for  beasts  now.  And 
wages  is  well  up  beyont  the  mountains." 

"So  I've  been  told,"  said  the  girl. 

"And  told  the  truth,"  said  Columb  Ruagh.  "Ye  can 
get  a  power  iv  money  over  there  now.  But  what  will  ye 
do  with  the  farm  when  ye 're  away?  Ye  can't  go  on  payin' 
the  rent  and  let  it  go  idle  without  a  baste  on  it  at  all,  not 
a  baste  iv  yer  own,  but  the  baste  iv  the  neighbors  and  them 
not  payin'  ye  a  penny  piece  for  the  feed  iv  the  cattle." 

"  I  '11  let  it  maybe, ' '  said  the  girl  with  a  sigh.  She  spoke 
mechanically,  unable  to  see  anything  clearly.  Of  busi- 
ness dealing,  the  sale  or  letting  of  land,  she  knew  nothing. 

"If  ye 're  goin'  to  do  that,  give  me  the  first  chance," 
said  Columb  in  an  eager  voice.  "I'll  take  the  farm  for  a 
year  from  now  and  see  to  the  fencing  and  the  drainin' 
and  everything  about  the  place.  But  it  won't  pay  me, 
I'm  afraid,  Maureen,  it  won't  pay.  But  seein'  that  yer 
mother,  God  rest  her,  and  me  were  such  good  friends,  I'll 
take  it  and  pay  the  rent  that's  owin',  and  at  the  end  iv 
the  year  if  there's  any  profit  made  out  iv  the  business  I'll 
not  forget  yerself,  Maureen.  Say  that  that's  a  bargain, 
Maureen.  It's  as  much  as  any  man  and  more  than  most 
men  would  do  for  ye,  Maureen.  It's  a  bargain,  isn't  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  smile,  sad  and  grateful,  showing 
in  her  tear-wet  eyes.  Columb  looked  at  her,  and  some- 
thing strange  and  novel  suddenly  permeated  his  being. 
What  it  was  he  could  not  determine,  but  for  a  moment  the 
girl's  look  seemed  to  smother  the  man's  business  instinct. 
There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence. 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  89 

""We'll  call  it  a  bargain,  Columb  Ruagh,"  said  Maureen. 
"I'll  be  goin'  to  Strabane  come  the  fair  and  maybe  at  the 
end  of  six  months  I  will  come  back  again,  or  maybe  at  the 
end  iv  a  year.  But  I  don't  know,"  she  added.  "I  hate 
this  place  and  I  don't  want  to  set  me  feet  in  it  again." 

When  he  left  her  Columb  pondered  on  his  interview,  re- 
calling more  than  once  the  look  which  the  girl  fixed  on  him 
before  accepting  his  offer  for  the  farm.  When  he  had  cov- 
ered five  hundred  yards  of  his  journey,  he  placed  his  bag 
on  the  ground,  and  looked  down  the  road  at  the  girl  on 
her  way  towards  her  lonely  home.  ' '  Old  Columb 's  a  fool, ' ' 
he  mumbled,  as  if  reproving  himself  for  something  which 
he  had  done. 

A  little  further  along  the  road  he  placed  his  burden  down 
again  and  looked  back.  In  the  distance  he  could  see  Mau- 
reen O'Malley  making  her  way  up  the  brae  towards  her 
home.  Now  and  again  she  stopped  and  with  head  bent 
looked  at  the  ground.  As  he  watched  her  he  could  almost 
feel  with  his  eyes  the  girl's  soft  cheeks  and  little  hands. 

"And  the  size  iv  her  wee  hands,"  he  whispered  to  him- 
self, as  if  these,  though  small,  had  made  some  great  im- 
pression on  his  mind.  Then  as  in  a  temper  he  lifted  the 
bag  which  held  the  live  thing  and  swung  it  over  his  shoul- 
der with  a  jerk. 

"Columb,  ye 're  a  fool!"  he  apostrophized  himself. 
"Columb,  ye 're  an  old  fool,  but  for  all  that  as  supple  on 
yer  legs  as  the  best  iv  them  yet ! ' ' 

VI 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  Maureen 
sat  under  the  sycamore  tree  that  grew  outside  the  door  of 
her  home,  her  head  thrown  back  and  resting  on  the  tree 
trunk.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  stocking,  the  heel  turned 
and  the  needles  stuck  in  the  leg.  That  night  she  was  going 
to  finish  the  stocking,  and  on  the  same  night  she  was  going 
away  from  Dungarrow. 

"For  good!"  she  said.  "Never  will  I  set  my  feet  here 
again." 


90  MAUBEEN 

She  looked  round  her,  at  the  rising  hills  and  the  fires  of 
the  peat-workers  wafting  their  smoke  into  the  air.  The 
holms  near  the  roadway  were  turning  green  and  the  river* 
Owenaruddagh,  running  seawards,  gleamed  like  a  thread 
of  silver  amidst  the  green  of  the  fields.  A  warm  air  per- 
vaded the  countryside,  and  the  universal  silence  magnified 
the  tranquillity  of  the  scene.  Not  a  soul  moved.  All  the 
people  seemed  to  slumber.  Even  the  hills  in  their  hazy 
atmosphere  nodded  drowsily.  Cows,  white,  brown  and 
speckled,  stood  still,  lazily  wagging  their  tails,  others  were 
lying  down,  probably  asleep. 

Maureen's  soul  was  filled  with  strange  thoughts,  none 
standing  out  clearly,  one  driving  another  away  in  slow, 
gradual  order.  But  under  it  all  was  a  voiceless  feeling 
of  protest  and  resentment.  Thoughts  of  wrong,  burning 
like  red-hot  cinders  in  her  mind,  died  out  only  to  be  suc- 
ceeded by  others,  like  sparks  from  the  raddled  rakings  of 
a  fire.  She  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  the  injustice  of 
things,  the  cruelty  of  her  lot  and  the  shadow  which  had 
always  clouded  her  life. 

She  looked  down  at  the  houses,  prim  and  proper  in  their 
brown  thatch  and  limewashed  raiments.  There  dwelt  the 
good,  honest  people,  the  worthy  and  God-fearing,  who  had 
always  shut  their  doors  in  her  face.  Farther  along  was 
the  school,  nicely  slated  with  its  rose-trees  lined  against 
the  walls.  Here  Maureen  had  been  educated  and  here  she 
spent  the  most  miserable  years  of  her  life. 

Now  it  would  all  come  to  an  end.  She  would  leave  the 
place,  go  away,  for  there  was  nothing  further  calling  on 
her  to  remain.  Her  piece  of  land  was  let  out  on  mortgage. 
This  mortgage  she  was  unable  to  pay  off.  In  fact  she  had 
not  got  a  penny  piece  in  the  world.  She  was  penniless. 

Of  business  she  knew  nothing.  A  helpless  victim  in 
the  hands  of  any  near-going  neighbor,  she  was  altogether 
at  a  loose  end  in  practical  matters.  Although  eager  to  go 
away  and  leave  the  parish,  for  good,  as  she  vowed,  she  did 
not  want  to  sell  her  farm.  "It  was  my  mother's  and  I  don't 
want  to  lose  it,"  she  thought.  But  as  to  her  purpose  in 
keeping  it  she  was  quite  vague. 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  91 

In  a  dim  way  she  fancied  that  even  if  she  went  away 
she  had  left  something  behind  her  to  which  she  might  re- 
turn one  day.  It  was  a  moment  of  thoughts  without  coher- 
ence, actions  without  motive;  fragmentary  ideas  came  and 
went  in  her  mind  like  flocks  of  birds  that  career  and  toss 
against  a  black  sky,  form  into  ragged  groups,  twisting 
and  scurrying,  then  vanishing,  leaving  nothing  but  the 
black  sky  and  the  breath  'of  the  storm  which  it  threatens. 
And  that  darkness,  that  obscure  void  against  which  the 
birds  careered  was  the  future  into  which  Maureen  was 
looking. 

A  twig  creaking  near  her  woke  the  girl  from  her  gloomy 
reverie.  She  looked  round  to  see  a  young  man  crossing 
the  near  dyke,  his  shirt  open  in  front,  his  cap  thrust  well 
back  on  his  head  and  his  face  flushed  and  warm  as  if  a 
hurried  journey  had  added  fresh  color  to  a  ruddy,  healthy 
face.  The  newcomer  was  a  tall,  well-built  youth  of  twenty 
with  magnificent  shoulders,  brown  hair  that  curled  over 
his  brow  and  fell  almost  to  his  gray,  kindly  eyes.  These 
eyes  spoke  of  something  good,  something  trustworthy.  In 
the  whole  expression  there  was  an  air  of  frankness  and 
artless  good  nature.  He  was  a  boy  whom  one  might  trust 
at  first  sight,  and  one  who  did  so  would  never  regret  the 
reliance  that  took  the  face  for  token. 

Cathal  Cassidy  was,  to  all  who  knew  him,  the  soul  of 
probity  and  honor,  whose  word  to  those  who  knew  him 
was  warranty  in  any  market.  He  was  a  hard  worker  with 
a  hand  in  many  undertakings;  a  fisherman  when  the  her- 
ring-shoals came  in  to  Gweenora  Bay;  a  carter,  who  with 
pony  and  cart  took  the  butter  of  the  mountain  people  to 
market,  their  corn  to  the  mills,  their  woolen  webs  to  the 
cloth-markets  where  Donegal  tweeds  were  sold  to  the  buy- 
ers from  far-off  towns. 

In  this  way  Cathal  Cassidy  came  to  know  his  own  corner 
of  the  world  as  few  knew  it.  He  traversed  its  mountains 
on  the  quest  of  straying  sheep,  fished  in  its  crooked  rivers, 
carted  over  its  rugged  mountainy  roads,  danced  at  its 
festivals  and  bought  and  sold  at  its  fairs.  Every  fold  of 
the  ground,  lift  of  a  brae,  dip  of  a  glen,  every  hill,  holm 


92  MAUREEN 

and  hollow  of  his  own  and  neighboring  baronies  were  known 
to  him.  He  knew  Tirconnail  as  a  painter  knows  every 
color  on  his  painting.  ' '  Cathal  Cassidy,  if  he  had  blinkers 
on  him  and  went  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country,  could  tell  every  one  townland  by  its  smell,"  said 
the  people. 

Maureen  O'Malley  got  to  her  feet  as  Cathal  crossed 
the  ditch,  her  lips  quivering  as  if  she  wanted  to  utter 
some  greeting  to  the  man.  She  looked  at  him,  then  dropped 
her  eyes  and  said  nothing.  For  five  days  she  had  not  seen 
Cathal,  her  friend.  He  had  been  away  on  business  at 
the  other  side  of  Sliab  League  and  when  there  had  not 
heard  of  the  death  of  Kathleen  O'Malley.  Now  that  he 
was  back  his  mother  told  him  of  the  sad  happening,  and 
without  waiting  for  bit  or  sup  he  came  to  condole  with 
the  girl  in  her  calamity. 

He  had  seen  her  on  the  morning  of  his  departure,  a 
healthy,  and  as  far  as  could  be  ascertained  from  outward 
appearance,  a  happy  girl.  Now  she  was  changed.  Her 
eyes  were  clouded,  her  lips  drawn  and  her  cheeks  hollow. 
The  anguish  of  pain  showed  in  her  eyes,  lent  its  sad  cast 
to  the  mobile  lips  and  gave  a  tone  of  despair  to  her  droop- 
ing shoulders.  The  gay  laugh  and  careless  gesture  of  a 
week  ago  were  the  girl's  no  longer. 

' '  Good  day  to  ye,  Cathal  Cassidy, ' '  she  said  in  a  scarcely 
audible  voice. 

"I  just  heard  it,"  said  the  young  man.  "Heard  it 
just  a  minute  ago  when  I  came  back  from  behind  Sliab 
League.  Ah,  poor  Maureen,  I'm  sorry  for  ye." 

He  caught  her  hands  as  he  spoke  and  pressed  them  in 
his  own. 

"One  trouble  after  another,"  she  sobbed.  "I  don't 
want  to  live  any  more  and  her  gone,  God  rest  her." 

"God  rest  her,"  said  Cathal,  awed  by  the  girl's  grief. 
"And  where  did  ye  stop  last  night  and  the  night  afore, 
Maureen  ? "  he  asked. 

"In  yer  Granny's,"  said  the  girl,  choking  with  sup- 
pressed tears.  "I  was  sittin*  in  the  house  and  she  came 
up  and  took  me  away  with  her.  I  went  just  like  a  baby. 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  93 

I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doin'.  'Twas  black  night  and 
day,  Cathal  Cassidy.  But  ones  have  to  die,  Cathal,  haven't 
they?  And  she's  in  Heaven  now." 

"She's  in  Heaven,"  Cathal  repeated.  "And  much  bet- 
ter off  than  we  are.  She  was  a  good  woman,  yer  mother," 
he  said  fervently. 

"The  best  in  all  the  world,"  sobbed  Maureen  in  inex- 
pressible anguish.  "Oh,  what  did  I  do,  Cathal,  that  she'd 
be  taken  away  from  me  like  this  ? ' ' 

"It's  the  end  for  all  iv  us,"  said  Cathal,  knowing  that 
he  should  say  something,  but  feeling  when  he  spoke  that 
his  words  of  consolation  were  futile  and  stupid.  "Poor, 
poor  Maureen." 

She  rubbed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at 
the  young  man. 

"I'm  goin'  away,"  she  said  shyly,  as  if  telling  him  of 
something  which  she  knew  he  would  not  approve. 

"Away!    Where?" 

"To  Strabane.  To  the  hiring-f air, "  said  the  girl,  her 
lips  closing  in  a  sort  of  passionate  determination. 

"To  the  hiring-f  air.     What  for,  Maureen?" 

"I'm  tired  and  sick  iv  being  here,"  said  the  girl. 
"  'Twas  bad  enough  with  me  mother  livin'  and  now  with 
no  one  at  all  to  care  there's  nothin'  to  keep  me." 

"But,  Maureen,  ye  can't  have  it  in  yer  head  to  go  and 
leave  us  all,"  said  Cathal  in  a  grave  tone  of  voice.  "I 
know  more  than  one  that'd  be  sorry  if  ye  go,  Maureen. 
I'd  be  sorry,  Maureen,  so  sorry  that  I  wouldn't  know 
what  I'd  be  doin'  and  me  goin'  from  place  to  place  through 
the  country  and  coming  back  here  maybe  at  night  or  in 
the  early  mornin '  with  not  a  light  in  yer  home  and  thinkin ' 
that  ye  were  so  far  away  and  me  not  knowing  what  ye'd 
be  doin'.  But  ye 're  not  goin',  Maureen,  tell  me  that  ye 're 
not." 

"I'm  goin',"  she  said,  "beyont  the  mountains  to  the 
hirin'-fair." 

"No!  Don't,  Maureen,"  Cathal  besought  her,  catching 
her  hands  and  holding  them  between  his  own.  "It's  silly! 
It's  mad,  Maureen.  The  work  that  ye '11  have  to  do  there, 


94  MAUREEN 

with  no  friends  at  all  and  gettin'  up  early  in  the  morning 
and  the  hard  word  from  dawn  to  dusk.  Ye  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Maybe  I  don't,"  said  the  girl.  "But  that  and  all, 
I'm  going.  I'm  tired  to  death  iv  the  place  and  them  that's 
in  it,  all  except  yerself,  Cathal,  and  Eileen  Conroy.  The 
way  that  people  look  at  me,  and  me  knowin'  all  the  time 
that  they're  thinking  bad  about  me,  is  enough  to  chase  a 
strong  man  away  let  alone  me.  .  .  .  Don't,  Cathal  Gas- 
sidy,  there's  a  lot  iv  people  lookin*  out  at  ye  havin'  hold 
iv  me  be  the  hand  like  this." 

"Well,  let  them  look!"  said  Cathal,  regaining  the  hand 
which  Maureen  had  drawn  away.  "What  do  I  care  what 
they  think!" 

"But  I  do,"  said  the  girl.  "They'll  cast  the  bad  eye  on 
ye  when  they  know  that  ye  're  comin '  so  close  to  me.  When 
I  was  weer  than  I  am  now,  they  wouldn't  let  the  other 
children  play  with  me  afraid  that  I'd  do  them  some  harm. 
Now  that  I'm  big,  they'll  say  worse." 

' '  But  listen, ' '  said  Cathal,  releasing  her  hands  and  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  girl.  "Listen,  and  don't  have  it  in  yer  head 
to  go  away  like  this.  Listen,  Maureen,  I  don't  want  ye 
to  go  away.  I  want  ye  to  stay  here,  and  if  ye  're  lonely  up 
in  this  house,  come  down  and  stay  with  my  mother.  She 
has  nothin'  .  .  .  She  .  .  .  Maureen,  I'll  tell  ye  what  to 
do.  I'll  work  yer  farm  for  ye.  I'll  set  the  pratees  and 
the  corn  and  cut  the  hay.  Only  don't  go  away.  If  ye  do 
ye '11  niver  know  what '11  take  place  there  and  ye  so  far 
from  yer  friends." 

"I  have  no  friends,"  said  Maureen  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"But  I'm  yer  friend,"  said  Cathal.  "I  was  yer  friend 
always.  Ye  mind  when  the  two  iv  us  herded  the  cows  and 
put  the  shilisthree  boats  on  the  brooks  for  the  fairies  and 
made  whips  and  crosses  from  the  green  rushes.  Ye  mind 
it,  Maureen?" 

"I  do,  sure,"  said  the  girl.  "Ye  were  always  good  and 
kind,  Cathal,  when  ye  were  very  wee  and  now  too.  Ye 
were  always  the  same,  Cathal,  one  iv  the  very  best.  I 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  95 

could  trust  ye  in  everything  always.     I  know  ye 're  one 
iv  the  kindest  hearts  in  all  the  world." 

"But  ye 're  goin',"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  reproach,  as 
if  her  good  opinion  of  his  moral  qualities  was  some  reason 
why  she  should  not  go.  "Ye  say  this  one  minute  and 
that  the  next.  But  what  does  it  matter  what  ye  say  about 
goin'  away?  It's  the  death  of  yer  mother,  God  rest  her! 
that  has  upset  ye.  0  Maureen !  Maureen !  Ye  're  a  silly 
child. ' '  The  young  man  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

The  girl,  despite  her  previous  behest,  reached  out  her 
hand  and  caught  his,  squeezed  it  tightly,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears. 

"Tell  me,  Cathal,  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  walk 
to  Strabane?"  she  asked  in  a  choking  voice. 

' '  How  long !  A  good  while, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  Five  miles 
to  Dunkeeran,  and  seven  miles  from  there  to  Greenanore 
.  .  .  Kilgarrow  .  .  .  Drimaroor  .  .  .  Cloghan  .  .  .  Stranorlar. 
Forty  miles.  But  ye 're  not  thinkin'  iv  it,  Maureen?" 

"I'm  going,"  she  said  in  a  steady  voice.  "I've  made  up 
me  mind." 

"But,  Maureen,  ye  can't  go,"  said  Cathal  frantically. 
" I  won 't  let  ye.  My  mother's  away  to  the  market.  When 
she  comes  back  I'll  tell  her  to  come  up  here  and  take  ye 
back  with  her  to  our  house.  Then  she'll  speak  to  ye  and 
show  ye  yer  foolishness,  Maureen.  Just  think  iv  it.  Goin' 
away  like  this  and  ye've  never  been  beyont  Stranarachary 
in  all  yer  life.  Ye 're  silly,  Maureen,  silly  as  a  wee  wane 
iv  two.  Maureen,  ye  can't  go!" 

"There's  nothin'  for  me  to  stay  here  for,"  said  the 
girl.  "Maybe  I  will  come  back  again,  and  even  if  I  don't 
there'll  maybe  be  better  times  beyont  the  mountains.  No- 
body'11  know  me  there  and  that's  somethin'.  It's  every- 
thing, Cathal  Cassidy."  Her  breast  heaved  convulsively. 
Almost  unaware  of  what  she  was  doing  she  placed  one 
trembling  hand  on  Cathal 's  arm  and  clung  to  him  as  an 
ivy  clings  to  its  support. 

"Now  go  away  and  leave  me,  Cathal,"  she  said  with  a 
sob,  clutching  his  sleeve  with  nervous  fingers.  "You  were 


96  MAUREEN 

very  good  to  me,  but  go  away.  Every  one's  lookin'  out  in 
the  place  and  they'll  be  sayin'  things.  Good-by  t'ye, 
Cathal.  Good-by." 

She  pulled  herself  away  with  an  effort,  her  head  droop- 
ing and  her  loose  tresses  falling  down  over  her  shoulders. 
Filled  with  emotion  which  he  could  neither  explain  nor 
subdue  the  man  took  a  step  after  her  and  placed  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  A  feeling  of  mastery  took  possession 
of  him  and  something  rose  in  his  throat  almost  choking 
him. 

"You  can't  go,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "I'll 
not  let  ye  go  away  like  this." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  stay,"  said  the  girl,  turning  round 
slowly  and  looking  at  him.  "Ye  don't  know  me,  Cathal. 
I've  made  up  me  mind  and  nothin'  bar  death  'ill  prevent 
me.  If  I  haven 't  a  name  iv  me  own  I  've  a  will  iv  me  own 
and  pride.  I'm  not  goin'  to  stay  here  with  every  one's 
hand  against  me." 

"But  they're  not  against  ye,"  said  Cathal.  "My  granny 
would  do  the  last  thing  in  the  world  for  ye  and  so  would 
me  mother.  Ye  know  that  yerself,  Maureen." 

"Maybe  now  they  would,  when  I'm  in  misery  iv  me 
own,"  said  the  girl.  "But  after  a  week  or  two  weeks 
they'd  change.  They  can't  help  it,  but  they'd  look  on  me 
as  one  that's  not  like  other  people.  And  I  can't  bear  it, 
Cathal  Cassidy." 

"Do  ye  think  that  I'd  be  like  the  others,  that  I'd 
change?"  asked  the  young  man,  with  his  hand  still  on 
the  girl's  shoulder,  pressing  it  tightly  as  if  he  feared  that 
she  would  suddenly  run  away  and  leave  him. 

"I  know  that  ye'd  always  be  the  same  to  me,  Cathal," 
she  said.  "You're  so  good  and  so  kind  and  decent.  But 
ye 're  not  like  the  rest  iv  the  people.  If  they  were  all  like 
you,  .  .  .  But  I'm  goin'." 

A  look,  haggard  and  feverish,  overspread  her  face,  as  if 
something  beyond  her  control  urged  her  to  take  a  step 
which  she  dreaded,  but  which  she  could  not  gainsay.  She 
turned  her  eyes  on  Cathal ;  a  moan  of  anguish  escaped  her 
as  if  she  were  in  bodily  pain.  A  pang  of  grief  smote  the 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  97 

man,  and  a  blind,  insane  feeling  filled  his  being.  Putting 
both  arms  round  the  girl  he  drew  her  to  him  in  a  mad 
embrace. 

"Maureen,  my  little  Maureen,  my  wee  love,  ye 're  not 
goin'  away  to  leave  me,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "I 
want  ye,  Maureen,  more  than  anything  in  the  whole  world. 
Ye  're  everything  to  me !  Ye  were  everything  to  me !  Not 
the  day  or  yesterday  but  for  a  long  while,  Maureen.  If 
I  passed  ye  on  the  road  without  a  word  t'ye  hardly,  'twas 
because  I  had  such  a  notion  iv  ye.  Many's  a  night  when 
every  one  in  the  place  was  goin'  to  bed  I  watched  the  light 
in  the  house  above  thinkin'  iv  ye  sittin'  there  under  the 
lamp  knittin'  yer  stockin'  or  maybe  sayin'  yer  prayers. 
And  then  when  the  light  would  go  out  I  would  think  iv  ye 
goin'  to  bed  and  wonderin'  what  ye  were  thinkin'  about. 
.  .  .  Maureen,  tell  me  what  ye  were  thinkin'  about  when 
I  was  standin'  by  the  road  with  my  head  full  iv  ye?  Tell 
me  what  were  ye  thinkin'  iv?" 

* '  Iv  yerself ! ' '  said  the  girl  shyly. 

"Iv  me!"  said  the  man.  "And  now  ye 're  wantin*  to 
go  away  and  leave  me.  No,  no.  I  won't  let  ye,  Maureen! 
Going  away  to  Strabane,  indeed.  What  a  wee,  simple 
soul  ye  are,  Maureen." 

A  flush  showed  in  her  face  and  she  glanced  down,  afraid 
to  look  at  Cathal.  In  an  ecstasy  of  passion  he  rested  his 
lips  on  her  brown  hair  and  kissed  it. 

The  sleepy  townland  was  awaking  to  life  now.  Every 
door  had  its  eye,  every  window  its  sidelong  look.  Mau- 
reen suddenly  became  conscious  of  the  interest  evinced 
by  the  neighbors  in  the  affair.  She  stepped  back  a  pace, 
releasing  herself  from  Cathal 's  embrace. 

"They're  all  lookin'  at  ye,  Cathal,"  she  said.  "Ye '11 
never  hear  the  end  iv  this!  I  feel  their  eyes  on  us." 

"Then  let  them  go  to  hell,"  said  the  young  man  with 
an  impetuous  wave  of  his  arm.  "They're  more  curious 
about  the  business  of  others  than  they  are  about  their  own. 
But  let  them  think,"  he  went  on.  "Ye 're  not  goin'  and 
that's  all  that  matters." 

"I'm  goin',"  said  the  girl  with  the  same  decision  that 


98  MAUREEN 

marked  her  words  a  moment  before.  "I've  took  it  into 
my  head,  and  I'm  goin'." 

"Then  ye  don't  care  for  me,  Maureen,"  said  the  young 
man,  a  mad  jealousy  flaming  up  in  his  heart.  "That's 
why  ye 're  goin'  away,  because  ye  don't  care  for  me." 

"I'm  goin'  away  because  I  do  care  for  ye,"  said  the 
girl.  "I've  always  cared  for  ye,  Cathal." 

"And  ye 're  goin'  to  leave  me?"  he  asked,  with  an  in- 
credulous nod  of  his  head.  "That's  a  kind  iv  love  that 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  iv,  Maureen  O'Malley.  Ye  tell 
me  that  ye  care  for  me  and  then  get  out  iv  the  way  as  if 
ye  were  afraid  iv  me.  But  it's  only  fun  iv  me  that  ye 're 
makin',  Maureen.  Ye 're  not  goin'  away." 

"I'm  goin',"  said  the  girl.  "If  I  stay  here  it  will  be 
the  black  look  and  the  hard  word  for  me  as  long  as  I  live. 
And  if  ye  take  the  notion  iv  helpin'  me  into  yer  head  it 
will  be  the  same  for  yerself.  And  ye '11  be  sorry  for  it, 
not  maybe  now,  but  in  after  years." 

"Not  me,"  said  Cathal,  setting  his  teeth  and  closing  his 
fists  as  if  threatening  those  who  dared  to  molest  the  girl  by 
word  or  look.  "If  they'd  only  dare." 

"They'd  dare,"  said  the  girl.  "Not  maybe  to  yer  face, 
but  behind  yer  back.  Ye  don't  know  the  people.  Ye 
weren't  me  or  me  mother,  God  rest  her.  And  when  ye 
would  marry  me,  as  ye  would,  I  know,  for  ye 're  not  like 
the  fellows  about  the  place.  Ye 're  good  and  kind  and 
never  a  man  that  would  put  a  girl  to  shame.  I  speak  like 
this  because  I'm  wise  beyond  my  years  maybe,"  she  has- 
tened to  add,  seeing  a  crimson  blush  rise  on  Cathal's  face. 
"Ye  learn  a  lot  through  sorrow;  and  it's  much  that  me 
mother,  God  rest  her!  told  me  that's  known  to  nobody 
beyond  me  and  herself.  And  nobody  only  meself  knows 
the  woman  that  she  was,  so  good  and  so  kind.  And  it 
wasn't  her  to  blame  any  one  at  all  for  what  happened. 
'  'Twas  all  me  fault, '  she  said.  But  beyond  that  she  would 
tell  me  nothin'.  'God  knows,'  she  used  to  say,  'and 
meself  and  another,'  but  who  the  other  was  she  never 
told  me,  and  I  never  asked  her.  She  didn't  want  to  put 
him  to  shame,  whoever  he  was.  And  I'm  like  her,  Cathal. 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  99 

I  don't  want  to  put  anybody  to  shame,  neither  for  a 
fault  that's  their  own  or  for  a  fault  that's  not  their  own. 
I  could  never  marry  yerself,  Cathal.  We'd  be  sorry  for 
it  ever  after,  the  two  iv  us,  if  I  took  yer  name." 

"I  wouldn't  be  sorry,"  said  the  young  man.  "As 
if  I  would  and  not  a  girl  in  the  whole  world  like  ye, 
Maureen.  What  would  I  care  what  people  would  say. 
Ah!"  he  exclaimed  passionately.  "If  I  would  hear  them 
sayin'  anything  against  ye,  Maureen,  I'd  let  them  know." 
He  thrust  out  his  fist  as  if  striking  somebody — "And 
sorry!  Oh,  Maureen!" 

"Iv  course  I  know  that  ye'd  never  let  on  to  me,  even  if 
ye  were,"  said  the  girl.  "But  I'd  be  thinkin'  this  and 
that  and  I'd  never  have  a  minute's  happiness.  Good-by 
to  ye,  Cathal." 

She  caught  his  hand  again,  squeezed  it,  and  her  eyes, 
laden  with  tears,  rested  on  the  man's  face.  Then  with- 
out another  word  she  dropped  his  hand,  turned  round 
and  walked  slowly  back  to  her  home.  His  eyes  followed 
her  to  the  door;  he  saw  her  stand  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  her  head  bowed,  the  uncoiled  tresses  of  hair 
resting  on  her  shoulders.  Without  looking  back  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  house. 

For  a  full  five  minutes  Cathal  stood  there  as  if  frozen, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  house,  a  look  of  perplexity  and  agita- 
tion featuring  his  face.  Suddenly  his  eyes  cleared  and  a 
hopeful  glow  suffused  his  countenance. 

"I  know,"  he  exclaimed  happily.  "I'll  get  me  mother 
to  come  up  and  she'll  bring  Maureen  to  her  senses." 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  home. 

vn 

Darkness  was  settling.  Sliab  a  Tuagh,  with  its  night- 
cap on,  was  falling  asleep  in  its  blanket  of  gloom.  Over 
its  head  the  early  stars  were  being  joined  by  others  that 
suddenly  flared  into  sight  against  the  obscurity  as  glow- 
worms appear  in  the  loom  of  a  bog.  Over  the  country 
the  varied  sounds  of  falling  night  were  making  themselves 


100  MAUREEN 

manifest,  the  lowing  of  heavy-uddered  cows  that  yearned 
for  the  hand  of  the  milker,  the  quacking  of  late  ducks 
as  they  made  for  their  croaghs,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the 
sound  of  voices,  the  laughter  of  the  young  who,  having 
finished  their  day 's  work,  were  now  congregating  in  groups 
here  and  there  on  the  roadway,  some  talking  of  the  work 
of  the  day,  others  of  love,  of  this  and  that,  all  the  in- 
significant little  things,  the  mere  nothings,  which  go  to 
make  the  life  of  the  young. 

It  was  at  this  hour  that  a  light  suddenly  shone  from  the 
window  of  Maureen  O  'Malley  's  house  on  the  Meenaroodagh 
brae.  The  lamp  had  been  lit  by  the  hapless  girl,  who, 
having  wakened  from  a  troubled  slumber  into  which  she 
had  fallen  some  moments  before,  recollected  the  journey 
which  lay  before  her.  Even  to  herself  she  would  assign 
no  reason  for  starting  on  her  journey  that  night.  To- 
morrow at  dawn  would  do  as  well.  The  fair  would  be  held 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  Why  was  she  going  there  ?  What 
had  happened?  She  hardly  knew.  Her  eyes  heavy  with 
sleep  and  their  lashes  beaded  with  tears  caught  the  light 
of  the  newly-lighted  lamp  and  glimmered  with  a  million 
little  suns.  A  weariness  lay  like  a  cold,  heavy  stone  on  her 
breast,  depriving  her  of  the  very  power  of  thought.  She 
rubbed  her  eyes,  turned  up  the  wick  a  little,  then  turned 
it  down  again  as  she  saw  the  flame  casting  a  layer  of  soot 
on  the  top  of  the  globe.  All  this  she  did  mechanically  as 
in  a  dream. 

She  looked  round  the  kitchen.  It  was  dark  and  quiet 
save  within  the  circle  lit  by  the  lamp.  On  the  top  of  the 
dresser  near  the  rafters  lay  a  white  cat  asleep,  its  body 
curled  up  in  a  nice  round  ball.  Shadows  played  on  the 
wall,  moving  slowly  and  lazily  as  if  afraid.  Every  object 
in  the  room,  tables,  chairs,  the  delf  on  the  dresser,  the 
upended  crock  leaning  against  the  wall,  the  dying  fire  with 
the  ash  crumbling  from  the  peat  and  dropping  silently  on 
the  hearth,  inspired  awe  and  quiet.  A  feeling  of  loneliness 
subdued  the  girl. 

She  looked  at  the  empty  stool  under  the  brace.  This 
was  where  her  mother  used  to  sit  and  knit  her  stockings. 


MAUREEN  0 'MALLET  101 

She  wasn't  there  now,  and  Maureen,  so  long  accustomed  to 
her  presence  in  the  one  spot,  the  click  and  sparkle  of  the 
needles,  was  not  surprised  when  she  saw  the  dead  suddenly 
appear  and  take  up  her  place  on  the  hassock  again.  Con- 
scious that  the  dead  was  really  there  as  of  old,  Maureen 
was  not  surprised  to  find  the  Presence  take  on  form,  lift 
her  needles  and  go  on  with  the  knitting.  At  that  moment 
a  slight  rustle  from  the  doorway  engaged  the  girl's  at- 
tention. She  turned  round. 

Some  one  was  standing  there,  framed  in  the  dark  back- 
ground and  looking  at  Maureen.  The  newcomer  was  a 
young  girl  about  Maureen's  age,  barefooted,  with  a  shawl 
round  her  shoulders.  With  lips  slightly  parted,  cheeks 
flushed  and  eyes  downcast  as  if  suffering  from  timidity 
and  embarrassment,  the  newcomer  rested  her  eyes  on  the 
floor,  then  raised  them  and  looked  at  Maureen. 

"Eileen  Conroy!    Is  it  yerself  ?" 

"I  knew  ye'd  be  alone,"  said  the  visitor.  "And  it's  so 
dark  and  lone  here  and  no  one  at  all  to  speak  one  word 
to  ye.  My  mother  wonders  what's  wrong  with  ye  at  all 
and  everybody  in  the  place  ready  to  do  the  last  thing  in 
the  world  for  ye  and  ye  won't  come  out  and  stay  with 
anybody  at  all.  Stayin' here  all  be  yerself,  Maureen!  It's 
a  wonder  ye  're  not  f  eeard ! ' ' 

"There's  nothin'  to  be  f  eeard  iv  here,"  said  Maureen 
in  a  low  voice,  looking  at  the  hassock  to  find  that  the  ap- 
parition had  vanished. 

"But  ye  used  to  be  f  eeard,"  said  Eileen  in  a  puzzled 
voice.  "Once,  and  that  not  so  long  gone,  ye  wouldn't  go 
out  to  the  well  be  night  for  a  bucket  iv  water,  unless  yer 
mother  would  stand  at  the  door  singin'  all  the  time  till  ye 
came  back  again.  Now,  ye 're  all  yer  lone  and  ye  stay 
here." 

"But  I'm  not  all  me  lone,"  said  Maureen  with  a  wan 
smile.  "I  sit  here  and  know  I'm  safe,  for  me  mother's 
watchin'  over  me  yet.  I  saw  her  a  minit  ago  and  me  sit- 
tin'  here  be  the  fire.  She  looked  at  me,  just  in  the  same 
way  as  she  always  used  to  do — " 

"Mother  iv  God!"  Eileen  exclaimed,  making  the  sign 


102  MAUREEN 

of  the  Cross,  her  whole  body  trembling.  She  was  still 
standing  at  the  door. 

* '  I  looked  at  her, ' '  Maureen  continued,  her  voice  sinking 
to  a  whisper,  "and  I  saw  her  sit  down  on  the  hassog  and 
grope  on  the  floor  just  the  same  as  she  used  to  do  when 
she  had  lost  a  needle,  and  it  maybe  fell  into  the  ashes. 
There  wasn't  a  bit  iv  fear  in  me,  for  why  should  there 
be,  for  wasn  't  she  my  own  mother  ?  She  kept  gropin '  and 
gropin'  and  two  or  three  times  she  put  her  hand  on  a  hot 
coal  and  kept  it  there  as  if  the  very  feelin'  was  no  longer 
in  her.  All  at  once  she  lifted  her  head  and  set  eyes  on  me. 
It  didn't  look  as  if  she  had  seen  me  before.  She  looked 
as  if  she  wanted  to  say  something  and  her  so  lone  like 
and  full  iv  sorrow  that  my  heart  grew  cold  as  ice  in  my 
breast.  Then  I  hears  yerself  comin'  in,  and  with  that  she 
went  out  iv  my  sight  like  a  spark  in  the  air  and  I  was  left 
on  my  lone  again." 

"God  help  us  the  day  and  the  night,"  said  Eileen,  fixing 
a  scared  look  on  the  hassock  by  the  fire  and  crossing  her- 
self. "But  maybe  it  was  only  a  dream  ye  were  havin'." 

"Maybe  that,"  Maureen  replied  in  a  low,  resigned  tone. 
"But  that's  what  I  saw  anyway,  Eileen.  And  the  way 
she  groped  for  the  needle,  just  the  same  as  always.  And 
she  had  the  same  sprikkled  cloud  on  her  and  her  maar- 
teens  and  her  checked  wool  petticoat.  And  it'll  be  hauntin' 
the  house  now  she'll  be  till  I  get  Masses  said  for  her  soul." 

Eileen  was  silent.  She  had  now  come  up  to  the  fire- 
place, and,  sitting  on  a  chair,  she  cast  furtive  glances  round 
the  room.  A  troubled  expression  settled  in  her  eyes,  and 
it  seemed,  even  to  Maureen,  that  her  friend  had  something 
on  her  mind.  They  looked  at  one  another. 

"Ye 're  not  yerself,  Eileen,"  said  Maureen  suddenly. 
"Ye 're  as  white  as  a  sheet.  It's  nothin'  wrong  with  ye, 
is  it?" 

"Nothin',"  said  Eileen  gloomily.  "But  I'm  sick  iv 
this  place.  I  wished  I  was  out  iv  it.  Ye  can't  move  for 
it's  work  all  day  and  most  iv  the  night.  Maybe  a  dance 
once  a  month  and  ye  never  see  anything  at  all.  I  have 
a  good  mind  to  go  away  altogether.  If  it  wasn't  for  me 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  103 

mother  and  her  so  old  with  the  rheumatics,  I'd  be  away 
years  ago." 

"Every  one's  gettin'  the  idea  iv  goin'  away  into  their 
heads  now,"  said  Maureen.  "There'll  soon  be  not  a  one 
left  in  the  parish." 

"Who's  leavin'  now?"  asked  Eileen. 

"Oh,  well,  every  one  nearly,"  said  Maureen.  "There's 
so  many  that's  gone  away  to  the  war  and  maybe  never 
comin'  back;  and  so  many  more  that  are  goin'  when  they 
see  that  England  does  the  right  thing  to  Ireland." 

"But  what  do  they  mean  by  the  right  thing  at  all?" 
Eileen  questioned.  Hers  was  a  practical  nature  in  rela- 
tion to  immediate  desires,  the  cooking  of  a  meal,  the  knit- 
ting of  a  stocking,  the  mending  of  a  torn  dress,  but  for 
anything  out  and  beyond  her  sphere  of  domestic  activities, 
she  had  no  use.  "I  don't  know  what  they're  always 
speakin'  about,  the  boys  that  bees  round.  It's  always  Ire- 
land doin'  this  and  that  if  England  does  the  right  thing." 

"It's  a  long  story,"  said  Maureen,  looking  up.  "Ire- 
land hasn't  her  rights.  They  were  taken  from  her  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago  by  England,  and  ever  since  that  time 
she  has  been  crushed  down.  They've  taken  everything 
from  her,  everything  that  by  right  belongs  to  a  nation. 
Her  language  is  almost  gone,  and  she  hasn't  a  tongue  iv 
her  own  anywhere  bar  in  wild,  out-of-the-way  places  like 
this,  and  even  here  it's  dyin'  out.  We  go  to  school  as 
children  and  everything  is  told  to  us  in  the  tongue  iv  the 
Sassenach.  We  learn  our  prayers  in  English,  our  catechism 
in  English,  our  lessons  in  English.  If  the  boys  go  out 
to  fight  as  soldiers  they  have  got  to  wear  the  clothes  of  the 
King  of  England.  They'll  fight  be  the  side  iv  France  if 
they're  allowed  to,  but  England  won't  allow  them." 

"But  my  mother  says  that  there  never  was  a  time  for 
Ireland  like  the  times  that 's  in  it  now, ' '  said  Eileen.  ' '  Stock 
goin'  up  in  price  and  the  Old  Age  Pensions.  And  then 
the  boys  that  have  gone  away,  it's  money  in  pocket  for 
them  that's  at  home.  Hannah  McKelvie  iv  the  Hill  has 
two  iv  her  boys,  Corney  and  Hugh,  at  the  war,  and  it's  piles 
iv  money  that  she  can  lift  on  them  at  the  Post  Office  once 


104  MAUKEEN 

a  week.    And  neither  one  or  other  iv  them  was  much  good 
to  man  or  baste  when  they  were  here  at  home." 

"That's  it,"  said  Maureen  with  a  sigh.  "If  a  thing 
gets  in  money  it  doesn't  matter  at  all  what  the  thing  is. 
Nobody  is  much  good  that  will  go  to  fight  and  his  thought 
on  nothin'  but  the  money  that  it  will  get  him.  Freedom 
is  not  to  be  got  in  that  way.  But,  Eileen,"  she  added 
hastily  with  a  timorous  smile,  "it's  not  for  me  to  be  talkin' 
iv  things  like  this  unless  it's  to  take  me  mind  off  iv  other 
things  and  me  that  should  be  gettin'  ready  for  me  journey. 
Forty  miles  it  is,  and  the  fair  is  the  day  after  the  mor- 
row." 

"Ye 're  a  funny  one,  Maureen,"  said  the  other  girl,  who 
had  already  heard  of  Maureen's  project.  "But  I  won't 
think  that  ye 're  goin'  at  all.  It's  not  to  be  thought  iv, 
and  ye  leavin'  so  much." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  as  if  lamenting  something 
which  she  herself  had  lost.  She  gazed  furtively  at  Mau- 
reen as  if  trying  to  read  something  in  the  girl's  expression, 
something  of  great  import  and  moment  to  herself.  Sev- 
eral times  Maureen  looked  up  to  meet  this  glance.  It  dis- 
concerted her.  She  sensed  a  certain  tension  in  the  glance, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  seemed  to  fill  with  certain 
antipathy  which  emanated  from  the  visitor. 

She  had  known  Eileen  ever  since  she  could  remember; 
knew,  as  she  thought,  every  mood  of  the  girl,  and  could 
with  the  utmost  ease  couple  any  act  of  the  girl  with  the 
motive  and  any  mood  with  the  occasion.  But  this  stealthy 
glance,  this  covert  look  which  hid  some  ulterior  design 
was  not  usual  to  Eileen. 

"Ye 're  lookin'  very  funny  the  night,"  said  Maureen 
suddenly. 

"In  what  way,"  stammered  the  girl,  catching  her  breath 
as  if  on  the  point  of  sobbing. 

"Well,  it's  the  way  that  ye 're  lookin'  at  me,"  said 
Maureen.  "Ye  don't  seem  yerself  at  all." 

"Then  I'm  not,"  the  girl  avowed.  "I'm  not  meself  at 
all.  It's — Oh,  Maureen,  I  couldn't  tell  ye  for  worlds,  not 
to  ye  anyway. ' ' 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  105 

"Then  who  to,  if  not  meself?"  said  Maureen,  putting 
both  arms  round  her  friend's  shoulders  and  drawing  her 
closer  to  herself.  "If  I  can  do  anything  to  help  ye,  Eileen, 
I'll  do  it.  Ye 're  the  only  girl  friend  that  I've  got  in  the 
whole  world,  and  who  could  look  for  another  friend  when 
they  have  yerself,  Eileen?  Now  tell  me  what's  wrong  with 
ye,  Eileen.  Mind  that  I'm  yer  friend,  and  ye 're  my  friend, 
the  best  friend  I've  in  the  world." 

"Bar  one,"  said  Eileen.  "And  that  is  everything, 
everything."  As  she  spoke  she  got  to  her  feet,  stepped 
back  a  few  paces  and  coming  in  contact  with  the  chair 
under  the  window,  sat  down,  as  if  suddenly  losing  all 
control  of  herself.  A  blush  mantled  her  face,  rising  to  the 
eyes,  getting  into  tone  with  the  lids  that  were  reddened  as 
if  with  tears. 

"Bar  one,"  Maureen  repeated  in  a  surprised  voice. 
"What  d'ye  mane  at  all,  Eileen  Conroy?" 

"Ye  know  yerself,  Maureen." 

' '  Me !  I  don 't  know !  It 's  the  want  iv  sleep  the  nights 
iv  the  wake  that's  tellin'  on  ye." 

"I  wished  it  was,"  said  the  girl,  again  rising  to  her 
feet  and  taking  a  step  towards  the  door.  "I'm  goin' 
home,"  she  said,  but  then  as  if  thinking  better  of  it  she 
sat  down  again. 

"What's  wrong  with  ye  at  all?"  asked  Maureen,  fixing 
a  puzzled  look  on  her  young  friend.  "Tell  me  and  I'll 
do  anything  in  the  world  for  ye  before  I  go  away.  Can  I 
help  ye,  Eileen?" 

"No,  no.  Ye'd  help  me,  I  know,  but  as  it  is  ye'd  be 
the  last  person  in  the  world  fit  to  help  me,"  said  Eileen, 
fixing  a  queer,  hard  look  on  Maureen.  In  that  look  hate 
and  jealousy  seemed  to  have  mingled.  "The  luck  came 
yer  way,  Maureen  O  'Malley,  and  it  missed  me ! " 

Again  both  became  silent.  Maureen  gazed  pensively  at 
the  fire,  twirling  a  coil  of  her  hair  between  finger  and 
thumb.  Eileen  Conroy  watched  her  and  shook  her  head 
sadly  from  time  to  time,  but  suddenly  rising  to  her  feet 
she  crossed  to  Maureen  and  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  she  said  calmly  while 


106  MAUREEN 

her  lips  quivered  as  if  from  pain.  "Here  are  the  two  iv 
us  that  were  always  friends,  but  now  it  looks  as  if  there's 
somethin'  between  us,  cuttin'  us  away  one  from  the  other. 
It's  not  that  ye 're  goin'  away,  Maureen  O'Malley.  It's 
somethin'  else." 

"Him?"  asked  Maureen  in  a  whisper,  not  raising  her 
eyes  from  the  fire. 

"Ay,  it's  Cathal,"  Eileen  replied  in  a  choking  voice. 
"Why  is  it  at  all,  and  us  two  the  friends  that  we  are? 
Oh,  Maureen,  Maureen." 

The  moan  broke  with  such  anguish  from  the  girl  that 
Maureen  was  filled  with  grief  for  her  friend,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  affection,  warmer  than  ever  she  had  known  before, 
rose  in  her  heart.  Their  mutual  sorrow  melted  the  barrier 
that  stood  between  them  and  seemed  to  bind  them  closer 
to  one  another. 

"It's  not  your  fault,  Maureen." 

"And  it's  not  yours,  and  it's  not  his,"  said  Maureen. 
"It  had  to  be :  but  I'm  goin'  away,  and  then  he'll  see  that 
ye 're  a  far  and  away  better  girl  than  I  am." 

"But  even  with  yerself  gone,  if  ye  do  go,  and,  Maureen, 
I  hope  ye  don't,  what  does  it  matter  to  Cathal  in  the  way 
he  looks  at  me?"  said  Eileen  despondently.  "I'm  one  iv 
the  many  that  he  might  look  at  if  he  forgets  yerself,  a 
thing  he'll  never  do,  Maureen.  I'm  nothin'  to  him  at  all. 
It's  'Good  day  to  ye,  Eileen,'  when  he  meets  me  and 
'Good  night  t'ye,  Eileen,'  when  he  passes  me  on  the  road 
at  night.  And,  Maureen,  it's  often  that  he  passes  me  by 
at  night  and  me  standin'  outside  the  door  when  he's  goin' 
home.  I  wonder  does  he  know  why  I'm  standin'  there 
sometimes,  and  it  always  every  time  when  I  know  that 
he'll  be  passin'  on  his  cart.  Oh,  Maureen,  Maureen!" 
She  clung  closer  to  the  girl  and  unburdened  her  soul. 
"There  was  black  hate  in  my  heart  against  ye  the  day 
when  I  saw  ye  standin'  out  there  and  him  with  his  two 
hands  round  ye.  Black  hate,  Maureen  O'Malley.  And  I 
like  ye,  but  at  that  minute  ye  were  standin'  between  me 
and  heaven.  I'd  give  me  soul  to  be  in  yer  place,  my  body 
and  soul.  I  would  crawl  on  me  hands  and  knees  over  briars, 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  107 

I'd  let  him  tramp  on  me  if  only  he  would  catch  me  and 
kiss  me  as  he  kissed  yerself  the  day.  And  ye 're  goin' 
away  to  leave  him?"  she  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"I'm  goin'  away  out  iv  his  sight  for  ever,"  said  Mau- 
reen in  a  tone  of  sorrowful  resignation. 

"But  why,  Maureen,  why?"  Eileen  asked  passionately. 
"Why  are  ye  leavin'  him  and  him  lovin'  ye  as  he  does?" 

"That's  one  reason  that  I'm  goin'  away,"  said  Maureen 
with  a  sad  smile.  "He  loves  me  so  well  that  I  can't  make 
him  a  sorry  man  be  marryin'  him  and  have  all  the  people 
talkin'  behind  our  backs  and  making  a  mock  iv  him.  And 
that  would  break  the  heart  iv  me.  Say  what  ye  like,  Eileen, 
I'm  goin'.  I'll  lose  myself  like  a  spark  goin'  up  the 
chimley  and  no  one  will  hear  a  word  about  me  again. 
Maybe  he'll  be  sorry  after  me  a  while,  but  as  time  goes  on 
he'll  forget  all  about  me,  and  why  shouldn't  he?  He's  a 
young  fellow." 

"Ye  speak  just  like  an  old  woman,"  said  Eileen.  "Are 
ye  in  earnest  with  what  ye  say  ? ' ' 

Their  eyes  met,  Eileen's  filled  with  the  glimmer  of  a 
vague  hope,  Maureen's  with  the  premonition  of  a  dread 
certainty.  They  clung  to  one  another,  both  trembling, 
helpless.  Maureen  felt  that  she  had  no  right  in  causing 
her  friend  such  suffering.  Eileen  realized  that  she  was 
mean  and  despicable  in  telling  her  own  worries  to  a  girl 
who  had  already  such  suffering  heaped  on  her  own  shoul- 
ders. Unmitigated  misfortune,  heavy  as  rock,  had  fallen 
on  both,  crushing  them  to  the  ground.  Sobbing,  they 
looked  at  one  another  with  piteous,  childish  eyes. 

"Well,  there's  no  good  in  crying  about  it!"  said  Mau- 
reen with  an  air  of  resolute  self-reliance  as  she  gently 
disengaged  her  arm  from  Eileen's  and  got  to  her  feet. 
"There's  no  good  in  cryin'  about  it  at  all." 

"No  good  at  all,"  Eileen  acquiesced  lamely,  but  even 
as  she  spoke  a  fresh  burst  of  sobbing  shook  her  frame. 
Staggering  to  her  feet,  she  threw  out  her  arms  and  clasped 
Maureen.  "It's  my  fault,"  she  sobbed.  "I  shouldn't 
have  come  here  to  trouble  ye.  But  then  I  knew  that  ye'd 
be  lonely,  and  I  was  jealous  of  ye.  ...  I  did  not 


108  MAUREEN 

what  to  do.  And  I  love  him,  maybe  as  much  as  yerself, 
Maureen,  and  maybe  more  .  .  .  but  not  more.  I  would 
have  him  if  he'd  take  me,  and  I  wouldn't  care  whether  he 
suffered  for  it  or  not.  ...  I  don't  know  what  I'm  sayin' 
at  all.  If  I  went  away  would  ye  stay  here  and  marry 
him?  Maybe  if  ye  would  it  would  be  easier  to  bear.  A 
married  man's  married.  And  maybe  if  I  went  away  I'd 
forget  all  about  him  and  be  happy  beyont  the  mountains. '  * 

Eileen's  voice  as  she  spoke  was  very  low  but  firm,  as  if 
trying  to  prevent  something  from  mastering  her.  She 
looked  very  beautiful.  A  pink  glow  mantled  her  cheeks, 
her  dark  eyes  were  alight  under  her  arched  brows,  her 
breath  coming  in  short,  labored  gasps,  panting  as  if  for 
something  which  could  never  be  attained.  Without  being 
conscious  of  the  fact,  the  girl  was  pitying  herself  and  in 
reality  seeking  help  and  consolation  from  her  unhappy 
rival. 

She  glanced  joylessly  at  Maureen  as  the  girl  sat  by  the 
dead  fire,  her  dark,  shiny  hair  curling  over  her  beautiful 
shoulders,  her  face  in  profile  showing  the  line  of  the 
straight  nose  and  the  contour  of  the  rounded  chin,  an  artist 's 
model  for  his  greatest  masterpiece.  Deep  in  her  own 
thoughts  she  remained  silent.  Eileen  looked  at  her  from 
under  her  lashes.  Her  mad  agitation  was  somewhat  allayed 
by  Maureen's  avowal  that  she  was  going  to  leave  the  coun- 
try, that  is  the  parish ;  for  to  the  Tirconail  peasantry  their 
country  and  in  fact  their  very  world  is  bounded  by  the 
hills  that  can  be  seen  from  the  doorstep.  But  the  peace 
of  heart  was  only  for  a  moment.  Again  that  rankling 
jealousy  which  feeds  its  flame  on  the  quiver  of  a  lash,  the 
trembling  of  a  lip,  a  sigh,  and  sees  a  hidden  purport  in 
the  slightest  action,  welled  up  in  the  heart  of  Eileen  Con- 
roy.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Maureen  to  say  that  she  was 
going  away.  She  had  not  gone  yet.  And  she  never  would 
go.  If  Cathal  had  a  notion  of  her,  big  simple  fool  that 
he  was,  Maureen  was  not  the  girl  to  miss  her  chance.  She 
would  have  him,  being  what  she  was. 

Eileen  Conroy  got  to  her  feet,  went  to  the  door,  stood 
there  for  a  moment  as  if  considering  something.  Then  she 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  109 

looked  back.  Maureen  was  still  sitting  by  the  fire  gazing 
pensively  at  the  brown  and  white  ashes.  "She's  never 
going  away  from  here,"  said  Eileen  in  an  angry  whisper 
and  was  on  the  point  of  saying  so  aloud,  but  something 
indeterminable  exercised  a  subtle  influence  over  the  girl 
and  compelled  her  to  depart  in  silence. 

Two  hours  afterwards,  Kitty  Cassidy,  Cathal's  mother, 
late  home  from  the  market,  called  to  see  Maureen  O  'Malley, 
and  found  her  gone. 

Though  Maureen  had  disappeared,  the  house  was  occu- 
pied, and  the  occupant  was  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran.  How 
he  came  to  be  there  at  that  moment  was  not  known.  Of 
course  he  owned  the  farm  by  right  of  mortgage,  the  people 
knew;  but  that  the  mortgage  had  been  paid  that  day  by 
the  girl  giving  Columb  the  right  to  her  share  of  Crinnan 
was  not  as  yet  common  knowledge.  That  he  gave  twenty 
pounds  for  this  right  became  known  later,  and  gave  rise 
to  much  comment  and  heart-burning,  especially  amongst 
those  who  had  been  gulled  by  a  glass  or  two  of  potheen 
when  entering  into  transactions  with  Columb  Ruagh 
Keeran. 

But  it  was  considered  that  Columb  had  other  ends  in 
view  when  he  offered  the  girl  twenty  pounds,  which  was 
undoubtedly  true,  for  Columb,  a  man  of  discrimination, 
studied  the  mental  mood  as  well  as  the  monetary  need  of 
the  victims  whom  he  intended  to  fleece.  But  how  he  in- 
tended to  make  ultimate  profit  from  the  girl  Maureen 
O 'Malley,  was  never  known.  Suffice  for  the  purpose  of 
the  story  to  give  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran 's  statement  when 
Kitty  Cassidy  enquired  of  him  if  he  knew  where  Maureen 
O 'Malley  had  gone  to. 

"She's  away,  the  poor  girsha,"  he  said.  "Away  to 
Strathbane  with  her  pockets  filled  with  money,  for  I  have 
bought  this  farm  and  her  right  to  Crinnan  from  the  girl 
and  paid  her  for  it,  money  down." 


TOWNLANDS 

Now  as  townlands  these  three  townlands  are  the  best  that  can  "be  seen, 

Meenahalla  and  Strasallagh  and  Cagharacreen. 

Now  take  the  road  to  Rosses  Beag  as  well  as  Rosses  War, 

And  the  townlands  marching  either  hand  are  well  above  a  score; 

And  mark  them  well  in  hill  and  holm,  and  bog  and  pasture  land 

And  good  strong  houses  standing  snug  and  white  on  either  hand. 

"Good  luck  be  on  ye,  decent  man!"     The  girshas  passing  by 

Will  have  the  soft  laugh  on  the  lip,  the  brave  look  in  their  eye. 

The  hearty  men:  "It's  warm  indeed!     Sit  down,  sir,  if  you  please; 

J8o  have  a  pull  iv  this  old  pipe  and  make  yourself  at  ease!" 

"God  bless  you,  decent  man,  the  day!"  the  good  houseicife  will  say; 

"And  sit  you  down  and  eat  a  bit  to  help  you  on  your  way!" 

And  you  that's  on  the  Rosses  road  that  runs  to  Rosses  Wor 

Will  go  through  many  a  brave  toionland,  and  they're  above  a  score. 

But  as  townlands  three  townlands  are  the  best  you've  ever  seen, 

Meenahalla  and  Strasallagh  and  Cagharacreen  I 


111 


CHAPTER  IV 

COLUMB   RrUAGH   KEERAN 


SALLY  ROURKE,  the  medicine  woman,  a  witch  who 
ate  her  bread  without  blessing,  as  the  neighbors  af- 
firmed, who  held  concert  with  powers  of  darkness,  who 
knew  legerdemain,  black  magic  and  the  arts  which  are  not 
good  for  a  human  soul,  was  sitting  in  her  home  on  the  lift  of 
Meenaroodagh  brae  nursing  her  knees  and  warming  her 
bare  shins  in  front  of  her  peat  fire. 

The  Dungarrow  people  feared  the  old  woman,  but  de- 
spite this  they  came  to  her  when  suffering  from  any  ail- 
ment and  besought  her  for  a  cure.  Her  mode  of  procedure 
when  she  took  a  case  in  hand  was  of  a  medico-religious 
character  in  which  the  herb  cure  and  the  fairy  cure  went 
hand  in  hand,  where  the  faculty  of  medicine  took  almost 
second  place  to  the  magical  ceremonies  that  accompanied 
it  and  where  exorcism  was  considered  of  greater  merit 
than  castor-oil  in  curing  a  belly-pain. 

The  woman  had  cures  for  all  ailments,  the  nightfire 
(fever),  the  wildfire  (the  red  rash),  measles,  sore  eyes, 
pains,  sprains,  sores,  bruises,  warts,  styes,  mumps  and  chin- 
cough.  These  cures  and  charms,  with  their  mystic  forms 
and  mysterious  rites,  were,  of  no  doubt,  in  a  measure  help- 
ful, for  faith  works  miracles  amongst  people  who  have 
an  implicit  belief  in  unseen  spiritual  agencies.  But  now 
alas !  Dungarrow  has  turned  a  skeptical  eye  to  these  reme- 
dies. The  people  are  becoming  civilized,  and  civilization 
with  aeroplanes  in  the  sky  over  Sliab  League,  tanks  on 
the  crooked  Tirconail  roads,  men  of  the  Army  of  Occupa- 
tion steel-helmeted  and  accoutered  in  the  appointments 

113 


114  MAUREEN 

of  battle  drilling  in  the  holms  and  forming  fours  round 
the  raths  sacred  to  the  fairies,  has  no  place  in  its  make-up 
for  old  women's  cures,  spells  and  mystic  incantations. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Columb  Ruagh 
met  Maureen  0  'Malley  on  the  road  and  shortly  after  part- 
ing from  the  girl  that  the  man  entered  the  house  of  Sally 
Rourke  to  find  her  sitting  by  the  fire,  warming  her  feet 
and  legs  after  a  day's  wade  through  the  bogs  for  leeches. 
The  little  things  had  fastened  to  her  legs,  and  now  the 
old  woman  was  stopping  the  bleeding  caused  by  their 
bites  by  applying  cobwebs  to  the  wounds. 

The  leeches  that  she  had  caught  were  now  swimming 
gracefully  through  the  water  in  a  bottle  which  stood  on 
the  table.  Columb  could  see  the  sheen  on  the  greenish- 
black  creatures  as  they  curved  and  twisted  in  sinuous 
movements.  Now  their  bodies  turned  up  and  he  could 
see  their  mottled  bellies;  and  again  the  flattened  bodies 
stretched  out  straight,  showing  the  rows  of  reddish  and 
yellowish  spots  along  their  backs. 

The  woman  looked  round  on  hearing  the  noise  of  the 
door,  and  her  face,  thin,  blue  and  rigid,  reminded  the  man 
of  a  corpse.  The  eyes  stared  from  their  sunken  pockets  and 
told  of  a  world  of  cunning  concealed  in  their  depths. 
Sally  was  an  old  crone,  having  passed  her  seventieth  year 
by  ten,  and  eligible  for  the  Old  Age  Pension  which  she 
never  claimed.  Her  dignity  would  not  allow  her  to  de- 
scend to  this.  She  had  lived  for  close  on  eighty  years, 
and  being  able  to  take  care  of  herself  all  that  time  she 
was  not  going  to  appeal  to  the  parish  now.  Taking  a  pen- 
sion in  her  opinion  was  synonymous  with  a  charitable 
dole.  "Other  people  can  go  to  the  parish  when  they  get 
on  in  years,"  she  asserted,  "but  not  old  Sally  Rourke. 
My  father  and  mother  afore,  God  rest  them!  never  went 
to  the  parish  and  I'm  not  going  to  shame  them  that  went 
afore  me." 

Even  Father  Dan  could  not  prevail  on  Sally  to  accept 
the  Pension.  "I  would  take  it,  myself,"  he  said,  "if  I 
was  offered  it." 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       115 

"That  ye  might,  Father  Dan,"  said  the  woman.  "But 
then  I  'm  one  iv  the  Rourkes  and  not  a  MeCabe. ' ' 

She  looked  at  the  man  who  stood  by  the  door,  his  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes  and  his  burden,  the  bag  con- 
taining the  pig,  still  on  his  back.  The  animal  was  grunt- 
ing. 

"Well,  and  what  kind  iv  a  fair  was  it  the  day?"  she 
inquired,  getting  to  her  feet  and  coming  towards  the  door. 
Her  sight  was  failing  and,  her  eyes  unable  to  bear  testi- 
mony to  the  evidence  of  the  ears,  she  could  not-  tell  who 
the  visitor  was.  But  all  the  same  she  was  not  going  to 
let  any  one  find  out  this  weakness  of  vision.  The  Rourkes 
always  had  good  eyes.  Her  father,  it  was  said,  could  see 
the  very  grass  growing,  and  the  daughter  of  that  man 
could  not  confess  that  she  lacked  any  of  her  people's  at- 
tributes. 

"I  saw  ye  goin'  down  from  the  top  of  the  hill  the  day," 
she  croaked,  "and  I  said  to  meself :  'There's  a  man  that's 
goin'  to  buy  out  the  whole  market.'  Them  were  my  very 
words." 

"But  the  money  that  one  paid  for  beasts  the  day  was 
big,"  said  the  man  at  the  door,  as  he  placed  his  burden 
on  the  ground.  "I  bought  this  wee  bonnafan,  Sally 
Rourke,  and  the  money  that  I  gave  for  it  was  terrible.  I 
could  buy  a  full-grown  pig  for  the  same  money  two  years 
back." 

"Then  ye  didn't  strike  a  bargain,  Columb  Ruagh?" 
said  Sally  Rourke  in  a  dry,  cracked  voice  as  if  she  spoke 
through  a  throat  of  cinders. 

"A  bargain,  Sally  Rourke!"  exclaimed  the  man.  "A 
bargain  did  ye  say?  There  isn't  a  bargain  to  be  had  now. 
Ye  need  a  pot  iv  gold  sovereigns  to  lessen  the  stock  iv 
the  fair  by  one.  And  then  it's  a  chance  that  ye '11  ever 
get  yer  money  back  on  it.  The  war  maybe  will  stop  and 
then  it's  the  prices  goin'  down  and  sellin'  the  baste  for 
silver  that  ye  bought  for  gold. ' ' 

"That's  what  ye've  never  done  as  yet,  Columb  Ruagh," 
said  the  woman.  "Ye've  the  luck,  and  when  a  man  has 


116  MAUREEN 

that  there's  nothin'  more  to  be  said  at  all  about  the  mat- 
ter. It's  luck  that  puts  the  guineas  in  the  pocket." 

"It  is,  I'll  grant  ye  that,  Sally  Rourke,"  said  Columb 
in  a  wry  voice.  "It's  luck  that  gives  a  man  a  bit  iv  profit 
in  a  bargain." 

"That  indeed 's  true,"  said  Sally,  scratching  the  calves 
of  her  legs  where  they  itched.  "That's  a  true  word,  just 
as  true  as  the  old  sayin'  that  said  that  nobody  profits  bar 
at  the  expense  iv  others." 

"That's  right,  Sally  Rourke,"  Columb  admitted  phleg- 
matically.  "And  I  thought  iv  that  and  me  comin'  up 
here  to  tell  ye  that  yer  two  stirks,  the  brannat  one  and 
the  white-backed  one,  were  across  the  ditch  on  the  next 
farm  that  was  once  in  the  hands  of  Kathleen  O'Malley, 
God  rest  her,  but  is  mine  now,  be  right  iv  mortgage  and 
the  twenty  gold  sovereigns  that  I  gave  to  the  poor  woman 
twelve  months  ago,  and  her  without  a  penny  to  call  her 
own  and  next  to  nothin'  then  in  her  byre  or  bin.  So  when 
I  saw  yer  two  stirks  on  the  farm  across  the  ditch  I  thought 
to  meself  that  nobody  profits  bar  at  the  expense  iv  others." 

The  man's  voice  had  taken  on  a  melancholy  tone. 

"They've  been  across  there  all  the  day,  I  bate,"  he  went 
on,  "and  me  down  at  the  fair  tryin'  to  get  a  sucker  to 
help  me  to  make  up  the  money  that  I  paid  for  that  farm. 
A  good  penny  it  was  and  me  a  poor  man,  that's  tryin' 
to  make  a  livin'  somehow  or  the  other  up  at  the  Crinnan 
cross-roads.  These  two  stirks  have  been  over  the  fence 
many's  a  time  on  the  grass  atin'  it" — he  smacked  his 
lips  as  if  munching  the  herbage  himself  and  finding  it  to 
his  taste — "the  grass  that  I've  paid  for  be  hard  work  and 
scrapin*  and  scringin'  day  in  and  day  out  for  the  past 
twenty  years  or  more." 

"But  they  weren't  over  the  ditch  when  I  came  down 
the  hill  half  an  hour  back,"  said  the  old  woman.  "They 
were  just  lyin'  the  two  iv  them  together  at  the  back  iv 
Garrybawn,  and  they  looked  as  if  they'd  lie  there  all  night 
without  movin'  a  tail." 

"That  may  be  so,"  said  Columb,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  finds  everything  in  life  the  reverse  of  that  which  is 


COLUMB  KUAGH  KEERAN       117 

anticipated.  "And  I  believe  it  for  I  know  that  ye 're  a 
good  dacent  woman,  Sally  Rourke.  But  that  and  all,  I 
gave  twenty  gold  pounds  for  the  farm  and  if  I'm  to  feed 
all  the  stock  iv  the  neighbors  I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  get 
the  money  back.  And  it's  not  the  first  time  that  they've 
been  there,  them  two  stirks,  Sally  Rourke.  I've  seen  them 
often  beyont  the  ditch,  but  I've  said  nothin'  because  I 
know  that  ye 're  a  dacent  woman  and  wouldn't  do  me  out 
iv  me  dues  as  a  neighbor." 

"That  I  wouldn't,"  said  Sally  Rourke.  She  was  afraid 
of  Columb. 

The  man  glanced  at  her  with  a  grin  and  said  slowly: 

"Iv  course  ye  wouldn't,  but  that  and  all,  I  can't  let 
trespassin'  cattle  be  all  day  and  night  runnin'  over  me  land. 
If  they  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  once  or  twice 
it  wouldn't  matter  a  hair,  but  as  it  is  they're  there  all  day 
and  all  night,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  strange  mingling  of 
levity  and  severity.  "Ye  never  keep  much  iv  an  eye  on 
them,  and  as  they  say,  'Nobody  profits  bar  at  the  expense 
iv  others,'  so  it  looks  as  if  all  the  profit  goes  to  you,  Sally 
Rourke,  and  all  the  expense  is  paid  for  be  me." 

"But  all  that  two  stirks  ate  when  they  go  over  is  nothin' 
at  all,"  pleaded  the  woman.  "And  if  they  go  over  they 
don't  stay  there  long,  for  it's  soon  that  yell  chase  them 
back,  Columb  Ruagh,  if  ye  see  them." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  man  grimly.  "If  I  see  them.  I 
don't  often  see  them,  I'll  admit.  That's  because  I'm  not 
often  down  this  way,  but  whenever  I'm  down  this  way  I 
do  see  them.  They  never  leave  the  place.  So  there's  only 
one  thing  to  be  done  and  that 's  to  drive  them  to  the  pound. 
And  I'm  goin'  to  do  that  now.  I'm  goin'  up  to  the  hill 
to  drive  them  to  the  pound. ' ' 

The  woman,  who  was  now  sitting  on  the  chair  by  the 
fire,  sprung  to  her  feet  with  a  yell. 

"Ye 're  the  dirty  spawn  iv  the  divil,  Columb  Ruagh!" 
she  shrieked.  "In  ye  come  here  so  that  one  would  think 
butter  wouldn't  melt  in  yer  mouth,  and  then  ye  talk  about 
sendin'  my  poor  bastes  to  the  pound.  And  me  a  widow 
woman,  too,  Columb  Ruagh.  Go'n  and  drive  them  to  the 


118  MAUREEN 

pound  if  ye  want  to  and  may  my  curse  be  on  yer  head. 
Go  'n !  Out  iv  the  house  and  away  with  them  to  the  pound. 
Go  'n,  Columb  Kuagh !  Go  'n,  ye  heU  broth,  ye !  Go  'n ! " 

Columb,  who  had  lifted  his  bag  again  with  the  intention 
of  carrying  his  threat  into  action,  seemed  to  become  dis- 
concerted by  the  woman's  wild  outburst  of  wrath.  He 
glanced  at  her  uneasily,  saw  the  fiery  eyes  deeply  sunk  in 
their  wrinkled  pockets,  the  contorted  face,  the  fingers  of 
her  lean  hands  working  like  the  claws  of  a  cat.  In  an- 
other moment  she  would  probably  fly  at  the  man  and  tear 
his  face.  Columb  Euagh  placed  the  bag  on  the  floor  and 
sat  down. 

"Well,  don't  be  gettin'  so  wild  about  it,  Sally  Rourke," 
he  said  in  a  temporizing  tone.  "Ye  take  everything  too 
much  to  heart.  The  pound  was  only  me  fun." 

"Go'n,"  said  the  woman.  "  'Twas  no  fun.  I  know  ye 
too  well  for  that,  Columb  Ruagh.  Ye'd  take  yer  own 
father  from  his  grave  and  put  him  to  the  pound.  That 
ye  would,  Columb  Ruagh." 

The  man  held  up  a  big  open  hand  in  front  of  the  woman's 
face. 

"Listen!"  he  said.  "Now  listen!  It's  the  bad  humor 
I'm  in,  anyway.  Things  have  been  goin'  far  from  well 
for  me  iv  late.  First  it's  one  thing  and  then  the  other, 
and  the  price  that  barley  grain  is  goin'  and  meal  seen  and 
oatmeal.  There 's  more  money  goes  to  the  fillin '  iv  the  still 
up  there  than  comes  out  iv  the  worm,  as  the  sayin'  is.  But 
that  and  all,  Sally  Rourke  (and  ye '11  bear  me  out  in  what 
I  say),  I  can  see  me  way  to  help  a  friend  when  it's  in  me 
power  to  do  so.  I  give  yerself  the  fossaid1  for  next  to 
nothin',  Sally  Rourke,  and  ye  made  a  tidy  penny  on  the 
same,  sellin'  it  to  the  neighbors  for  sprains  and  hacks  and 
cuts.  Ye '11  bear  me  out  in  that,  Sally  Rourke,  won't 
ye?" 

"I  will,  that,"  said  the  woman,  now  somewhat  mollified, 
seeing  that  the  danger  of  getting  her  two  stirks  pounded 
was  past.  "But,  Columb  Ruagh,"  she  hastened  to  add, 

iFossaid.  Forcshot.  In  distilling,  the  first  spirits  to  come 
through  the  worm. 


COLUMB  EUAGH  KEERAN       119 

' '  the  f ossaid  is  iv  no  good  to  yerself ,  for  nobody  would  go 
to  ye  if  they  had  a  hack  or  a  sprain,  would  they?" 

"They  maybe  would,"  said  Columb.  "And  it's  maybe 
sixpence  I'd  get  for  a  taste  iv  the  f  ossaid  now  and  again. 
And  a  sixpence  is  a  lot." 

"But  not  to  a  man  like  yerself,"  said  the  woman.  "And 
ye  rotten  with  money." 

"It  goes,  Sally,  it  goes,"  said  Columb  with  a  sorrow- 
ful shake  of  his  head.  "Money  goes  one  way  and  another 
like  corn  through  a  riddle.  The  minute  that  one  grain 
comes  out  another's  after  it  just  like  tryin'  a  race.  And 
if  ye  put  yer  finger  in  one  hole  to  stop  the  leak  out  it  comes 
iv  another  hole.  It's  enough  to  drive  a  man  mad  and 
wrong  in  the  head,  the  way  that  money  has  iv  goin'. 
Even  the  day,  and  me  after  payin'  a  round  sum  for  that 
sucker,  I  met  Maureen  O'Malley  on  the  road  and  her 
breakin'  her  heart  on  her  mother  that's  gone,  God  rest 
her!  And  she  hasn't  a  brown  penny  piece  to  her  name. 
But  I  told  her  that  I  wouldn't  see  her  bate  and  it  was 
money  from  me  pocket  at  once  to  tidy  her  over  for  a  bit 
and  help  her,  poor  girl." 

Columb  stopped  short,  his  memory  bringing  back  the 
face  of  the  young  girl  as  he  saw  it  an  hour  previously, 
the  eyes  wet  with  tears,  the  lips  curved  in  a  sad  smile. 
"Why  does  her  face  keep  comin'  up  in  front  iv  me?"  he 
asked  himself  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  a  whisper. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Sally  Eourke. 

"About  the  poor  girl,  Maureen  O'Malley,"  said  Columb, 
mobilizing  the  threads  of  the  conversation  and  getting  them 
into  trim  again.  "I  helped  to  tidy  her  a  wee  bit  over  her 
troubles,  and  that  iv  course  was  money  out  for  me  again. 
It's  a  sin  the  way  that  him  that  should  be  takin'  care  iv 
her  now  has  left  her  to  herself  and  the  mercy  iv  her  neigh- 
bors," he  said,  his  voice  rising  in  an  effort  to  ward  off  the 
question  which  he  saw  forming  on  the  lips  of  the  old 
woman.  "It's  a  sin  for  him  to  leave  her  that  way  to  her- 
self and  him  gettin'  on  so  well,  the  vagabond.  To  think 
that  he  should  dare  to  do  it,  the  dhirty  rascal.  Every  one 
is  down  on  him  now,  every  one  in  the  place." 


120  MAUREEN 

"Who  is  it  that  ye 're  meanin'?"  came  the  woman's 
question. 

"The  man  that  done  it,"  said  Columb.  "I'm  half  a 
mind  to  get  hold  iv  him  and  make  him  do  the  right  thing 
be  the  girl.  She's  alone  now  and  nobody  to  say  a  word 
in  her  favor,  or  help  her.  I  had  to  give  her  the  few 
pennies,  and  I'm  a  poor  man,  Sally  Rourke,  that'll 
keep  the  roof  over  her  head.  Ah!  the  dhirty,  dhirty 
rascal ! ' ' 

"Who  is  it,  then?"  asked  the  woman. 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  yerself  who  it  is,"  said  Columb  in 
an  excited  voice.  "I  suppose  ye  know  as  well  and  better 
than  any  iv  us.  We  were  in  doubts  about  it  till  last  night, 
and  then  we  heard — " 

"Who  told  ye,  then?"  asked  Sally  Rourke.  "Who  was 
the  one  that  told  ye?" 

"Himself,"  said  Columb  with  a  wink.  "He  came  down 
to  the  road  last  night,  and  he  was  in  the  wildest  state. 
He  was  cryin'  like  a  child,  and  says  he:  'It  was  me  that 
was  to  blame,  and  it's  me  that  didn't  spake  about  it  for 
the  last  seventeen  years  when  I  should  have  taken  that 
woman,  God  rest  her !  and  got  married  on  her.  And  what 
can  I  do  now?'  says  he.  'Her  dead  and  can't  be  helped.' 
'But  help  the  girl  that's  left,'  says  I.  'Make  it  right  for 
her,  and  it  won't  be  so  bad.'  ' 

"But  the  poor  plaisham  hasn't  the  face  to  let  Cassie 
Shemus  Meehal  know,"  said  Sally  Rourke,  staggering 
across  the  floor  and  looking  at  Columb  Ruagh.  "She'd 
tear  his  eyes  out!" 

Columb  got  to  his  feet,  then  sank  into  the  chair  again, 
gasping  as  if  a  pail  of  icy  water  had  been  emptied  down 
his  neck.  His  mouth  hanging  open,  his  eyes  sticking  out 
of  his  head  as  if  imaginary  fingers  were  gouging  them 
from  their  sockets,  he  stared  at  Sally  Rourke. 

"What's  comin'  over  ye  at  all,  Columb  Ruagh?"  she 
inquired  in  a  frightened  voice.  "Is  it  a  fit  that's  on  ye? 
Lie  as  ye  are  and  I'll  put  some  cold  water  down  yer  neck. 
It'll  help,  Columb.  Lie  aisy,  now,  and  hold  yer  head 
back  Is  it  a  fit?" 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       121 

"Mr.  Brogan!"  the  man  exclaimed,  pulling  himself  to- 
gether. "Mr.  Brogan!  Eamon  na  Sgaddan!  Mother  iv 
God!" 


Columb  Ruagh  was  at  this  time  reputed  to  be  one  of 
the  wealthiest  men  in  Dungarrow.  How  he  got  his  money 
and  where  he  got  it  was  a  mystery  which  even  the  oldest 
and  most  astute  inhabitant  of  the  place  could  not  fathom, 
though  in  the  parish  all  have  a  good  memory  and  are  stock 
full  of  curiosity  that  pries  deeply  into  the  affairs  of  a 
neighbor. 

Columb  Ruagh  was  the  son  of  Columb  Keeran.  The 
father  was  in  his  day,  before  he  dropped  over  Kinranna 
Bridge  in  a  flood  and  got  drowned,  an  object  of  great  in- 
terest to  the  natives.  This  was  in  a  great  measure  due  to 
the  man's  strange  methods  of  life,  his  queer  mentality, 
cross-grained  disposition  and  peculiar  nature.  His  vanity, 
over-weening  self-conceit,  airs,  pretensions  and  manner- 
isms were  for  a  long  time  the  subjects  of  innumerable  tales, 
most  of  them  containing  at  least  some  item  of  truth  which 
fascinated  the  gossips  of  the  place. 

If  Columb  sold  a  cow  for  eight  pounds  at  the  fair  of 
Stranarachary,  that  cow,  according  to  the  man's  account 
of  the  sale  given  to  a  neighbor  ten  minutes  later,  was  sold 
for  eight  pounds  ten  shillings,  two  and  six  luck's  money; 
ten  minutes  later,  for  eight  pounds  ten  shillings,  money 
down;  and  in  this  way  the  money  received  for  the  cow 
would  go  on  increasing  until  by  the  time  he  got  home 
and  furnished  an  account  of  the  day's  marketing  to  his 
wife,  Nelly  Cosdhu  (dubbed  thus  because  she  always  went 
barefooted  and  never  washed  her  feet),  the  price  he  got 
for  that  cow  had  increased  to  ten  guineas. 

"And  where's  all  that  money?"  the  wife  would  inquire, 
as  she  counted  the  sum  handed  over  to  her  keeping. 

"If  it's  not  all  there,  all  that  I  said,"  Columb  would 
reply,  "it's  because  I  spent  it  like  a  gentleman." 

What  Columb  meant  by  spending  money  which  he  had 


122  MAUREEN 

never  received,  as  a  gentleman,  was  very  hard  to  deter- 
mine. A  gentleman  amongst  the  peasantry  is  always  cred- 
ited with  the  large  heart  and  lavish  hand,  but  neither  of 
these  was  possessed  by  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran.  Despite 
his  ostentation,  pomposity  and  pretensions,  Columb  was  a 
mean  man,  slow  in  paying  stipends,  reckonings  and  rents, 
but  quick  to  give  a  beggarman  what  in  Columb 's  estima- 
tion a  beggar  deserved,  "a  shirtful  of  sore  bones." 

When  a  beggar  new  to  the  place  went  up  to  Columb 's 
door,  every  window  in  the  townland  had  its  eye,  every 
door  an  interested  spectator.  "There's  a  poor  man  goin' 
to  Columb 's!"  was  the  cry.  "God  look  on  him,  the  poor 
divil."  Though  those  who  had  seen  the  beggar  a  moment 
before  did  not  warn  him  against  Keeran,  they  prayed  for 
his  safety  now  that  he  was  running  into  the  mouth  of 
danger;  but  all  the  same  they  waited  expectantly  for  the 
anticipated  trouble. 

They  could  see  the  man  stand  at  the  door,  shove  it  open 
and  enter.  Then  the  next  minute  they  would  see  him 
come  out,  Columb  holding  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
and  tail  of  his  coat.  He  would  lead  the  beggar  to  the 
verge  of  the  street,  hold  him  there  for  a  second,  then  shove 
him  down  the  brae  that  dipped  from  the  house  to  the  river 
bank.  The  shove  was  generally  such  a  strong  one  that  the 
poor  man  would  topple  over,  drop  his  mauleen  and  roll 
like  a  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  brae.  Following  the  poor 
man  would  come  the  white  potatoes  which  rolled  from  his 
bag  when  it  dropped  to  the  ground. 

"There,  ye  vagabone,  ye!"  Columb  could  be  heard  shout- 
ing. "It's  half  the  crops  iv  the  parish  that  ye 're  carryin* 
in  yer  mauleen.  Ye 're  a  curse  to  the  place,  you  and  ones 
like  ye !  Beggin '  and  scringin '  and  scringin '  and  beggin '. 
Scoot  out  iv  it,  ye  rip!  Out  iv  it,  ye  rip,  and  never  let 
me  see  yer  face  again!  And  don't  come  back  and  lift  the 
pratees.  Out  off  me  farm  with  ye  or  I'll  put  the  dogs  in 
ye!" 

Thus  admonished,  when  he  got  to  his  feet  the  beggarman 
would  not  come  back  again.  In  fact  he  would  get  off 
Columb 's  land  without  lifting  the  white  potatoes  from  the 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       123 

brae.  These  would  be  gathered  up  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards by  Nelly  Cosdhu  and  taken  in  to  fill  the  store  which 
Columb  had  in  his  own  bin. 

Added  to  his  meanness  Columb  was  afflicted  with  a  mad 
jealousy,  a  moral  eczema,  which  increased  its  irritation 
the  more  it  was  clawed.  He  was  afraid  that  some  man  or 
men  would  enter  his  home  by  night  and  steal  his  wife, 
that  some  man  would  fascinate  her  with  a  look  as  she  went 
to  Mass  on  a  Sunday  and  take  her  away,  that  a  neighbor 
would  come  under  his  own  roof  one  day,  pay  attention  to 
Nelly  and  cause  the  poor  woman  to  forget  her  marriage 
vows.  At  night  Columb  locked  his  gate,  barred  it,  built 
entrenchments  round  the  hedges,  barricaded  the  door  be- 
fore he  went  to  bed.  Even  in  bed  he  felt  suspicious  of 
the  world  outside,  and  often  in  the  dark  hour  his  wife 
would  waken  to  hear  her  man  up  and  about  nailing  the 
window-shutters  to  the  sill  and  wedging  the  hasp  of  the 
door. 

When  she  went  to  Mass  on  a  Sunday  he  always  accom- 
panied her,  his  eyes,  forbidding  and  stern,  weighing  every 
action,  every  nod  and  handshake  of  the  men  who  spoke  to 
Nelly.  Causes  the  most  slender  fed  the  secret  disease  and 
every  good-day,  cead  mhille  failthe  and  slati-leatTi  added 
flame  to  the  fire  of  the  furious  jealousy  which  burned  in 
his  heart.  To  him  Nelly's  slightest  smile,  word  or  gesture, 
trifles  devoid  of  interest  to  the  world  at  large,  presented 
tangible  qualities  and  special  properties.  Even  when  Nelly 
grew  old  and  wrinkled,  when  her  head  bent  earthwards 
under  the  weight  of  years,  when  her  breath  became  wheezy 
and  her  eyes  filmy,  Columb  was  still  prey  to  his  ground- 
less fears,  as  a  dog  that  buries  a  marrow-dry  bone  snarls 
at  all  who  look  on  the  spot  where  the  worthless  bone  is 
hidden. 

In  view  of  what  was  known  and  what  was  rumored 
Columb  was  left  very  much  to  himself,  and  as  far  as  could 
be  ascertained  he  desired  nothing  better.  He  thatched  his 
own  house,  cut  his  own  turf,  delved  his  fields  and  set  his 
own  potatoes.  This  was  some  years  after  his  marriage,  for 
prior  to  then  he  cooperated  with  his  neighbors  in  doing 


124  MAUREEN 

jobs  that  took  more  than  one  man  to  complete.  When  he 
did  this,  his  neighbors,  up  to  mischief  when  they  found  a 
butt  for  their  jokes,  played  on  Columb  ?s  innate  suscepti- 
bilities. "There's  Sahn  Eamon  Andy  that's  just  gone 
into  yer  house, ' '  they  might  say,  and  Columb  would  throw 
down  his  implement  of  labor,  seize  his  coat  and  rush  off 
to  the  house  in  which  Nelly  Cosdhu  all  alone  was  doing 
her  daily  round  of  housekeeping.  For  the  rest  of  that  day 
Columb  would  not  be  seen  by  his  neighbors. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  would  not  come  out  to  do  a 
hand's  turn  on  a  neighbor's  farm.  He  kept  to  himself, 
tilled  his  own  ground,  planted  his  potatoes  and  corn  with- 
out soliciting  help  or  assistance  from  any  neighbor.  When 
he  went  to  Mass  on  Sundays  he  took  Nelly  with  him,  and 
even  when  she  went  to  confession  he  sat  outside  the  con- 
fessional and  waited  until  she  had  told  the  priest  her  sins. 
Few  indeed  they  must  have  been,  for  Nelly  Cosdhu  never 
even  had  the  chance  of  sinning. 

"God  help  the  poor  man,"  said  the  people  of  Dungar- 
row.  ' '  He 's  even  afraid  that  the  priest  will  run  away  with 
old  Nelly,  and  her !  If  he  tied  her  to  a  stake  in  a  ten-acre 
field  not  a  one  in  the  parish  would  touch  her  with  a  pitch- 
fork." 

Three  children  were  born  of  the  marriage.  Two  of  them 
died  before  reaching  the  age  of  seven,  but  the  other,  the 
youngest,  survived  and  grew  up  to  be  a  strapping  boy,  the 
very  get  of  his  father  in  physique.  And  probably  in  tem- 
perament, too,  though  this  was  difficult  to  know  as  yet, 
for,  as  the  Dungarrow  people  said:  "A  Keeran's  never 
known  till  he  gets  buckled." 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Columb  Ruagh,  the  boy,  was 
one  of  the  strongest  youngsters  in  the  parish,  endowed  with 
enormous  vitality  and  vigor,  having  a  backbone  for  any 
burden  and  grit  to  tackle  the  hardest  task.  His  early 
manner  of  living  did  much  to  bring  this  about.  When  he 
was  aged  twelve  his  father  pulled  him  from  the  bed  every 
morning  at  six  with  the  cry  of :  ' '  Get  up,  my  young  vaga- 
bone.  There  never  was  a  sglawvy  in  this  house  yet,  and 
ye 're  not  going  to  be  one."  This  was  the  father's  benedic- 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEEEAN       125 

tion,  greeting  and  command  every  morning,  summer  and 
winter,  as  he  pulled  the  youngster  from  the  blankets  and 
sent  him  to  his  work.  Breakfast  was  given  him  at  nine 
o'clock,  dinner  at  one  and  supper  at  six  in  the  evening, 
and  all  day  long  the  youngster  worked  hard  at  various 
jobs  on  the  farm,  doing  a  man's  labor  when  he  was  four- 
teen and  two  men's  work  when  he  was  eighteen. 

At  this  age  he  buried  his  father  and  mother,  Columb 
first,  who  happened  to  fall  into  the  river  one  night  when 
coming  from  the  market,  and  Nelly  a  week  afterwards. 
She  went  to  bed  one  night,  but  the  next  morning  when  her 
son  called  her  she  didn't  answer  him.  He  went  across 
to  the  bed,  touched  her  shoulder,  but  she  did  not  move. 
She  was  dead. 

Thus  in  his  eighteenth  year  was  the  boy  left  on  his  own 
to  fight  his  battle  in  the  world,  a  weather-hardened  animal 
who  had  never  been  to  school,  who  went  into  his  first  boots 
on  the  day  his  father  went  into  the  coffin.  He  liked  the 
boots,  the  pliant  leather  that  shone  so  brightly  when  he 
rubbed  it  with  a  woolen  rag,  the  bright  nails  that  glittered 
like  stars  against  the  dun  leathern  background  of  the  soles. 
Though  soft  to  the  touch,  these  boots  hurt  his  feet  when 
he  put  them  on  and  worked  in  them.  After  a  time  he 
decided  to  work  as  of  old,  barefooted,  and  save  the  shoe 
leather  for  Sundays  when  he  went  to  Mass. 

"Now  I'll  get  up  in  the  morning  when  I  want  to,"  he 
said  on  the  evening  following  his  father's  funeral,  but 
the  next  morning  he  found  himself  out  of  bed  as  early  as 
before.  In  fact  earlier,  for  now  he  was  conscious  of  his 
responsibilities,  eager  to  perform  the  tasks  which  confronted 
him,  and  ready  to  tackle  the  future  which  had  to  be  hewn 
on  the  way  towards  wealth  and  prosperity. 

But  his  first  year  as  a  man  working  on  his  own  was 
steeped  in  adversity.  The  crops  failed,  the  meadow  land 
was  swept  by  floods  when  the  harvest  was  cut,  and  the  corn, 
light  of  ear,  rotted  in  the  stooks.  At  the  end  of  the  year 
when  reckoning  was  made,  Columb  found  that  farming  was 
not  a  success.  The  tillage  of  the  fields  had  not  paid  for 
the  sweat  expended  in  the  labor. 


126  MAUREEN 

"It's  not  goin'  to  pay,"  said  Columb.  "Next  year  I'm 
goin'  across  the  water  and  see  if  I  can  make  better  fist  iv 
Scotland." 

On  the  following  spring  he  mortgaged  his  farm,  packed 
his  belongings  in  a  bundle  and  crossed  to  Scotland,  where 
he  took  up  work  as  a  casual  laborer.  For  two  years  he 
remained  away,  then  came  back  to  his  native  place  with 
money  and  to  spare  but  not  to  spend.  He  was  a  close- 
fisted  youth  of  twenty-one,  sublimely  conscious  of  his  own 
worth  and  proud  of  his  bodily  strength. 

He  entered  the  games  of  the  countryside  and  threw  a 
stone  further  than  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel,  who,  although  a 
Drimeeney  man,  was  up  till  that  time  the  champion  stone- 
thrower  of  the  parish.  Columb  was  mighty  at  the  tug  of 
war,  supple  at. hurling  and  first  favorite  at  running  and 
jumping.  The  other  young  men,  though  beaten  by  Columb 
at  every  game,  felt  proud  of  the  giant.  His  prowess  filled 
them  with  instinctive  respect,  and  when  he  entered  a  field 
ready  for  the  sports,  his  sleeves  turned  up  to  the  elbow, 
the  collar  of  his  shirt  turned  down,  showing  a  massive 
neck  and  the  muscles  of  a  broad  chest,  the  boys  turned  one 
to  another  and  nodded,  as  much  as  to  say:  "There's  a 
man  for  you,  a  towney  of  our  own  and  afraid  of  no  man." 
But  when  the  old  people  heard  remarks  like  these  they 
shook  their  heads  and  murmured :  ' '  The  get  iv  his  father, 
and  God  help  the  woman  that  gets  him  when  he  takes  it 
into  his  head  to  marry." 

But  although  Columb  had  a  farm  of  land,  now  let  out 
as  security  for  money  advanced,  but  his  whenever  he  de- 
sired, as  he  had  money  and  plenty  of  it,  he  did  not  show 
the  least  interest  in  the  girls  of  the  place.  If  he  went  to 
a  dance,  he  danced  with  the  best  of  them,  kicking  roof- 
high  in  six-hand  reel  and  Alaman,  but  never  escorted  a 
girl  home  as  other  young  men  did. 

Of  course  this  was  remarked  upon  by  the  natives.  It 
was  not  altogether  correct.  A  young  man  should  run 
after  the  girshas.  If  he  did  not  do  so  when  young  when 
would  he  do  it?  Youth  was  the  time  for  soft  talk  and 
skifting,  the  day  for  the  girls.  But  as  they  said  this  they 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       127 

would  call  to  mind  that  the  late  Columb  behaved  in  the 
same  manner  when  he  was  a  youngster ;  in  fact  the  younger 
man  was  the  spit  of  his  father. 

"And  see  the  way  that  it  turned  out  with  him,"  they 
would  add,  nodding  their  heads  knowingly,  pleased  at 
their  own  subtlety  in  discovering  such  similarity  between 
father  and  son.  In  fact  there  was  a  dark  inference  to 
be  drawn  from  the  remark,  an  inference  which  was  in 
some  measure  a  confident  prophecy. 

But  something  unforeseen  occurred  on  the  March  fol- 
lowing Columb 's  return.  One  morning  the  trees  on  the 
roadway,  the  bridges,  the  walls  of  the  market-house  at 
Stranarachary  were  plastered  with  bills  telling  that  the 
farm  of  Columb  Keeran  was  up  for  auction.  The  farm, 
contained  twenty-seven  acres  (more  or  less),  part  good 
meadow-land,  part  arable  land  in  a  high  state  of  cultiva- 
tion, thirteen  acres  suitable  for  grazing  sheep  or  young 
cattle,  and  two  acres  turbary.  This  farm,  well-drained 
and  fenced  in  good-sized  fields,  was  held  under  the  good 
Irish  Marquis  of  Bristol  at  the  low  half-yearly  rent  of  one 
pound,  eleven  and  sixpence.  There  was  a  splendid  one- 
storied  thatched  dwelling-house  and  out-houses  all  in  extra 
good  order. 

The  people  of  Dungarrow  were  surprised.  Auctioneers 
had  never  before  taken  part  in  their  sales.  They  could 
manage  their  business  themselves.  When  they  wanted  to 
let  land  or  sell  it  they  tipped  the  wink,  as  they  said,  to  a 
neighbor,  telling  him  perhaps  not  to  let  anybody  know, 
anything  about  it,  and  two  hours  later  this  titbit  would 
become  the  common  property  of  the  parish.  If  anybody 
wanted  to  buy,  the  vendor  would  soon  find  a  bidder  calling 
to  test  the  truth  of  the  rumor.  In  this  way,  by  a  little 
bit  of  secret  diplomacy,  the  seller  would  be  saved  the 
necessity  of  paying  auction  fees.  But  Columb  Ruagh  did 
not  descend  to  stratagem  of  this  kind.  He  went  to  the 
auctioneer  and  placed  the  terms  of  sale  in  his  hands. 

That  Columb  auctioned  was  in  a  measure  surprising, 
but  what  gave  rise  to  talk  and  gossip  was  the  description 
of  the  steading  as  given  in  black  and  white  on  the  auction 


128  MAUREEN 

bills.  "Twenty-seven  acres  indeed!"  said  the  gossips. 
"More  or  less!  A  flea  could  cover  it  in  a  hop,  step  and 
leap.  Part  good  meadow  land  and  part  arable  land  in  a 
high  state  of  cultivation!  It  might  be  if  the  hay  wasn't 
so  easy  washed  away  be  the  floods  and  the  crops  came  up ! 
And  the  rent  low !  Old  Columb  never  said  that,  and  he  was 
always  slow  in  payin'  it.  And  the  house  isn't  so  bad  if  it 
was  thatched  and  the  cow  and  hens  kept  out  iv  it.  But  I 
suppose  the  auctioneer  must  do  everything,  bar  tell  the 
truth  for  his  money." 

The  farm  was  sold  a  week  later  for  the  sum  of  one- 
hundred-and-thirty-seven  pounds  ten  shillings.  A  man 
from  Frosses,  the  adjoining  parish,  bought  it. 

"And  paid  for  it  up  to  the  nail,"  said  the  people.  "It's 
a  fool  that  would  give  more  than  eighty  pounds  for  the 
holdin'.  What's  Columb  goin'  to  do  now?" 

The  first  job  essayed  by  Columb  following  the  receipt  of 
the  money  was  a  bit  of  simple  tailoring.  He  had  two 
coats,  one  new  and  woolen  warranted  to  wear,  the  other 
rent  and  frayed  as  was  to  be  expected,  seeing  that  the 
man  had  worn  this  garment  for  close  on  two  years.  With 
the  time-worn  coat  Columb  lined  the  other,  and  lined  it  in 
a  peculiar  manner.  He  cut  the  material  in  little  squares 
and  sewed  these  squares  to  the  inside  of  the  good  coat,  one 
square  matching  another.  Inside  each  of  these  squares 
was  a  sovereign,  set  like  an  Agnus  Dei  in  a  scapular. 
Viewed  from  the  outside  when  the  job  was  completed  the 
coat  had  the  appearance  of  a  quilted  eiderdown  in  make  if 
not  in  texture. 

A  few  days  later  Columb  put  his  clothes  in  a  bundle, 
made  for  the  Derry  boat  and  crossed  over  to  Scotland, 
coated  in  gold  and  his  mind  afire  with  plans  for  the  future. 
What  was  a  farm  compared  to  the  hard  ready  cash  which 
it  had  brought  him  ?  To  the  pile  in  his  possession  he  would 
go  on  adding  little  by  little,  bit  by  bit.  Then  one  day  he 
would  have  more  money  than  anybody  in  the  parish,  boxes 
filled  with  gold  buried  in  the  ground,  their  location  known 
to  nobody  save  himself. 

Confused  images  were  formed  in  his  mind  as  he  sat  on 


COLUMB  EUAGH  KEERAN       129 

the  deck  of  the  Derry  boat,  his  bundle  under  him  and  his 
wealth  in  his  raiment.  His  thoughts  acquired  a  magic 
power  as  he  nodded  sleepily  at  the  base  of  the  funnel  while 
the  smoke  trailed  over  his  head  splashed  with  sparks.  To 
the  man  every  spark  became  a  piece  of  gold ;  his  eyes  were 
dazzled  by  them.  He  wanted  money,  money !  He  was  go- 
ing to  make  it.  As  he  sat  there  he  felt  that  from  now  for- 
ward he  had  only  one  desire,  gold. 

When  he  arrived  in  Scotland  he  found  it  was  difficult 
to  obtain  employment.  The  season  was  bad,  the  jobs  in 
which  he  had  worked  before  were  now  filled  up  or  closed 
down.  The  unemployed  crowded  the  streets  of  the  towns, 
flowed  out  into  the  country,  filled  up  all  available  openings 
on  railway  and  farm.  The  engineer  had  left  down  the 
rule  and  taken  up  the  hoe;  dongarees  were  supplanted  by 
moleskins.  The  artisan  had  descended  to  casual  labor, 
the  navvy  had  become  a  tramp. 

But  Columb,  with  that  cunning  which  is  so  often  the 
property  of  the  uneducated  and  that  strength  of  will  pos- 
sessed by  those  who  have  only  one  object  in  view,  managed 
to  eke  out  a  livelihood  despite  hindrance,  hardship  and 
adverse  circumstances.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  his 
father  had  taken  the  youngster 's  upbringing  in  hand.  The 
hard  life,  cold  and  hunger  of  his  early  years  had  kneaded 
the  physique  of  the  boy,  made  a  man  of  him  as  a  child, 
and  therefore  he  was  proof  against  any  hardships  now.  He 
tramped  about  from  town  to  town,  working  a  day  here  and 
a  day  there,  sleeping  in  barns,  hay  stacks  and  under  bridges. 
"When  others  stood  shivering  in  the  cold,  Columb  slept, 
indifferent  to  all  temperatures  and  warm  in  his  cloak  of 
gold. 

Though  his  bedmates  were  often  men  who  would  stop 
at  nothing  to  get  possession  of  a  coin,  they  never  inter- 
fered with  Columb.  He  looked  so  powerful  that  no  man 
would  dare  tackle  him,  even  when  he  slept.  Besides,  he 
dressed  so  shabbily  that  no  man  thought  it  worth  his  while 
to  tackle  him  for  any  money  which  he  might  possess. 

But  despite  prudence,  parsimony,  and  his  efforts  to  block 
every  hole  in  the  sieve  of  expenditure,  Columb  found  that 


130  MAUREEN 

the  gold  of  which  he  dreamt  on  the  Deny  boat  was  as  dif- 
ficult to  catch  as  the  sparks  falling  from  the  smoke  of  the 
funnel.  At  the  end  of  three  months  he  had  only  added  two 
gold  pieces  to  his  pile,  one  piece  a  sovereign  and  the  other 
valued  at  half  that  amount. 

Then  at  the  end  of  that  time,  in  the  middle  of  June  to 
be  correct,  Columb  fell  in  luck's  way.  One  morning  when 
coming  through  the  town  of  Port  Glasgow  he  met  a  man 
at  the  entrance  of  a  close  rubbing  the  blood  from  his  face 
and  filling  a  deserted  street  with  his  maledictions.  Not  a 
window  was  open,  no  curious  eyes  stared  out  at  the  irate 
man.  In  this  locality  incidents  like  this  were  of  such  com- 
mon occurrence  that  no  sleeper  would  forsake  his  bed  in 
order  to  view  the  proceedings. 

Columb  when  he  came  abreast  of  the  man  paused  and 
looked  at  him. 

"What's  wrong  with  ye,  good  man?"  he  inquired. 

"Wha's  wrang!"  repeated  the  man,  in  a  high  screech. 
"Wha's  wrang!  I'll  tell  ye,  callant.  The  dirrty  whoor 
up  there" — he  pointed  a  bloodstained  thumb  at  the  win- 
dow— "has  done  me  oot  o'  seven  poons." 

"She  has,  then?"  said  Columb,  coming  closer,  a  covet- 
ous gleam  in  his  eyes.  "Seven  pounds!" 

"Seven  poons!"  yelled  the  man.  "And  then  got  me 
chucked  doon  stairs. ' ' 

"Herself  that  threw  ye  out,  was  it?"  asked  Columb. 

"Catch  me  lettin'  a  strip  o'  a  hussy  throw  me  out!" 
said  the  man.  "  'Twas  her  bully !  The  whoor 's  bully!" 

"Ye  ought  to  have  kept  clear  iv  the  house,"  said  Columb. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  Columb 's 
shoulders  and  feeling  his  face  with  his  eyes.  "Ye 're  a 
strong  laddie,  and  if  ye  help  me  to  get  the  siller  back  from 
that  woman  I'll  gie  ye  a  poon  o'  the  money." 

"In  this  way,"  said  Columb,  in  a  brisk  voice,  entering 
the  close. 

"Up  the  stairs,  first  landing,"  said  the  man,  following  on 
the  heels  of  the  avenger. 

They  came  to  a  door  that  stood  ajar  with  one  panel  shat- 
tered as  if  some  one  had  tried  to  shove  a  foot  through  it. 


COLUMB  KUAGH  KEERAN       131 

"In  there,  laddie,"  said  the  bloodstained  man,  shelter- 
ing himself  behind  the  massive  bulk  of  Cohimb  Ruagh. 

The  Irishman  shoved  the  door  open  and  entered.  In  a 
bed  near  the  wall  a  woman  was  lying.  A  dark  man,  bristly 
and  dirty,  sat  on  a  chair  by  a  dead  fire  taking  off  his 
boots.  As  Columb  came  in  the  woman  sat  up  in  bed  and 
set  a  frightened  stare  on  him;  the  man  holding  the  end 
of  a  lace  between  his  finger  and  thumb  glanced  round  and 
fixed  a  pair  of  scowling  eyes  on  the  intruders. 

"Back  again?"  said  the  woman  when  she  saw  the  blood- 
stained man.  "What  d'ye  want  the  noo?" 

"My  seven  poons,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  what  are  ye  after?"  asked  the  man  with  the  shoe- 
lace, glaring  angrily  at  Columb.  He  measured  the  Irish- 
man with  a  scornful  look  and  got  to  his  feet. 

"I've  come  with  this  dacent  man  to  help  him  to  get  the 
money  ye've  robbed  him  iv,"  said  Columb,  magnificently 
calm.  "Hand  it  over  at  once." 

"Awa  oot  o'  the  hoos  at  yince  with  ye,"  said  the  woman, 
rising  from  the  bed  and  placing  her  naked  feet  on  the 
floor.  Her  shift  torn  at  neck  and  hip  exposed  half  her 
body.  "Gie  him  a  cloot  on  the  lug,  Donal." 

The  dark  man  rushed  at  Columb,  hit  him  full  on  the 
face  and  almost  knocked  him  down.  The  man  who  had 
lost  seven  pounds  drew  back  several  paces  and  watched  the 
ensuing  contest  from  the  safety  of  the  landing.  But  the 
struggle  was  a  very  short  one,  for  the  dark  man  follow- 
ing his  blow  was  seized  by  Columb  round  the  waist  and 
shook  like  a  rat  in  the  grip  of  a  terrier. 

"I'll  kick  the  guts  out  iv  ye,"  said  the  red-haired  man 
with  an  oath  as  Donal  screamed  under  his  pressure  as  if 
he  had  been  under  a  granite  mill-stone.  "Where's  the 
money,  ye  dirty  sneakin'  cur?  Where's  the  money?" 

"Let  me  go  and  I'll  tell  ye!"  panted  the  man.  "My 
arm's  bruk!  Ye 're  chokin'  me!  Let  me  go!" 

Columb  released  the  man,  who  immediately  he  was  free 
turned  to  the  woman. 

"Gie  the  man  the  siller!"  he  yelped,  fuming  with  rage 
and  resentment.  "Gie  it  him  and  let  him  clear  oot." 


132  MAUREEN 

The  woman  obeyed  as  a  she-wolf  obeys  its  mate,  with  a 
snarl,  fumbled  under  the  pillow  and  drew  out  a  fistful  of 
money  which  she  handed  to  Columb.  He  took  it,  spread 
it  out  on  his  palm  and  counted  it.  Then  he  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"It's  mine,"  said  the  man  at  the  door,  who  hadn't 
spoken  a  word  for  some  time. 

"Yes,  be  damned!"  growled  Columb.  "Ye 're  not  worth 
it!  When  I  was  gettin'  this  man  to  see  sense  ye  were 
jookin'  behind  the  door  like  a  wean  that's  afeeard  iv  gettin' 
its  bottom  skelped.  Scoot!" 

Both  went  out,  the  little  man  in  front,  eager  to  keep 
out  of  Columb 's  reach.  When  they  came  to  the  street  the 
little  man  stopped  and  looked  at  Columb  Ruagh.  The 
sun  was  rising  and  the  shadows  of  the  houses  lay  across 
the  gray-blue  streets.  The  hour  was  close  on  five. 

"Ye  can  keep  yin  poon  and  gie's  the  other  six,"  said 
the  little  man. 

"To  the  divil  with  ye!"  said  Columb  Ruagh  with  a 
snort  and  walked  away.  Fortunately  for  him  the  town 
was  deserted.  Not  a  policeman  was  to  be  seen.  The  two 
left  the  town  by  the  main  road,  Columb  in  front,  the  little 
man  following,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Here  they 
met  a  gang  of  railwaymen  coming  in  from  a  night  shift. 

"He  robbed  me  o'  seven  poons,"  said  the  little  man,  but 
the  workers  to  whom  he  spoke  were  too  weary  to  take  any 
interest  in  his  trouble.  Besides,  the  affair  was  none  of 
theirs. 

"Knock  him  down  and  take  it  from  him,"  was  the  per- 
functory advice  of  one. 

"A  man  wi'  shouthers  like  that,"  said  the  little  man, 
who  still,  despite  Columb 's  formidable  appearance,  con- 
tinued following  him.  When  they  reached  the  lonely  road 
near  the  hamlet  of  Langbank,  Columb  took  to  his  heels  and 
proceeded  to  run.  His  pursuer  also  ran,  but  after  a  while 
when  he  saw  the  distance  between  himself  and  Columb 
Ruagh  increase,  he  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job  and  returned  to 
Port  Glasgow. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Columb  arrived  at  the 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       133 

Glasgow  free  coup  on  Houston  Moss,  and  here  he  met  Mr. 
Brogan,  towney  of  his  own,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since 
the  dance  at  Neddy  Og's  on  the  previous  Candlemas  night. 
The  account  of  this  meeting  has  been  already  told. 

Towards  sunset  Columb  arrived  at  a  big  house  near 
Paisley  and  asked  for  bit  and  sup,  being  a  poor  man  out 
of  work  who  had  tried  his  best  to  get  a  job,  but  without 
success. 

"And  if  a  job  is  offered  you  would  you  take  it?"  asked 
the  elderly  gentleman  to  whom  Columb  addressed  his  ques- 
tion and  who  happened  to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  house. 

"That  I  would,"  said  Columb. 

"Well,  I  need  a  man  to  help  the  gardener,"  said  the 
old  man.  "Do  you  think  you  can  do  that  sort  of  work?" 

"That  I  can,"  Columb  replied. 

Next  day  Columb  started  work  on  the  gentleman's  es- 
tate and  remained  there  for  two  years.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  the  old  man  died  and  in  his  will  left  one  hundred 
pounds  to  each  of  his  servants  who  had  served  him  loyally 
and  faithfully  for  a  period  of  two  years  and  over.  Columb 
got  his  hundred  pounds  and  with  this  in  his  keeping  he 
returned  to  his  native  parish  a  rich  man. 

m 

If  traced  on  a  map  of  Tirconail  the  parish  of  Dungar- 
row  would  in  outline  have  the  appearance  of  a  fan  partly 
folded,  its  outer  guards  the  boundaries  of  the  parish.  One 
of  these  rests  on  Sliab  League,  the  other  on  the  boglands 
of  Frosses.  The  leaf  of  the  fan  lies  at  an  oblique  angle, 
its  axis  on  the  hills  of  Crinnan,  from  which  the  fan  slopes 
downwards  till  it  trails  its  outer  verge  in  the  waves  of 
Gweenora  Bay. 

In  Drimeeney  or  any  sea-bordering  townland  of  Dun- 
garrow  a  towney  may  speak  of  being  next-door  neighbor 
to  America,  but  if  he  happens  to  live  in  the  townland  of 
Crinnan,  which  has  no  boundary,  march  ditch  or  boreen, 
he  lives  next  to  no  place,  an  outcast,  a  resident  of  the  town- 
land  that  is  at  the  back  of  Godspeed,  of  which  no  map 


134  MAUREEN 

gives  location  or  latitude.  Crinnan  belongs  to  everybody, 
which  means  that  it  belongs  to  none;  Crinnan  has  only 
one  building,  which  was  erected  by  a  potheen-maker  in 
the  old  days;  Crinnan  has  seldom  echoed  to  the  foot  of 
an  ubiquitous  policeman;  Crinnan  is  a  deserted  waste  of 
hill  and  bog,  the  mtermost  townland  in  the  parish  of 
Dungarrow. 

The  road  from  Dungarrow  going  eastwards  runs  over 
Crinnan  hill,  and  here  it  forks  into  two,  one  leading  to 
Doonwell  (a  resort  of  pilgrims)  and  the  other  going  to 
the  little  village  of  Kineeragh  where  the  natives,  workers 
in  wool,  sell  their  webs  of  homespun  on  market  days. 

The  townland  of  Crinnan  belonged  in  common  to  the 
residents  of  Meenaroodagh,  Meenarood,  and  Meenadinnagh. 
But  none  had  the  least  interest  in  the  place.  It  was  not 
worth  while  putting  stock  to  graze  there;  young  stirks 
stuck  in  the  marshes,  sheep  fell  over  the  precipices,  cattle 
strayed  and  were  never  found  again.  In  short,  Crinnan 
was  of  no  use  as  pasture,  meadow,  bog,  or  building-land. 
This  was  the  opinion  of  the  Dungarrow  people. 

But  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  returned  from  Scotland 
with  a  different  opinion  in  his  head.  He  had  money,  but 
no  home,  the  desire  to  make  money  and  little  prospect  of 
making  it  if  he  set  out  in  the  same  way  as  the  residents  of 
Dungarrow.  But  the  astute  Columb  had  a  scheme  in  hia 
head.  He  wanted  Crinnan,  the  whole  townland,  to  use 
it  as  he  thought  fit  without  let  or  hindrance,  and  he  deter- 
mined that  he  should  have  it. 

As  a  preliminary  he  took  the  ruined  house  by  the  Crin- 
nan cross-roads.  The  house  had  been  there  for  years,  but 
none  except  wandering  tinkers  ever  made  use  of  it.  Co- 
lumb took  it  over  from  the  tinkers,  and  after  he  had  done 
so  the  tinkers  (there  were  three  strong  men  in  the  gang) 
came  down  the  Dungarrow  road  swathed  in  bandages,  the 
men  streaming  with  blood,  the  women  shrieking  impreca- 
tions, the  children  howling,  and  all  full  of  the  story  of  a 
red-haired  madman  who  had  attacked  them  at  the  Crinnan 
cross-roads  and  half  murdered  them. 

Columb  now  became  owner.    There  was  a  doorway,  he 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       135 

built  a  door;  a  fireplace,  and  he  made  a  fire.  Where  he 
got  the  wood  for  the  door  and  the  turf  for  the  fire  was 
unknown.  But  no  one  questioned  him  about  these  mat- 
ters. Columb  was  a  strong  man  with  a  temper,  and  the 
people  were  afraid  of  him. 

In  possession  of  the  house,  Columb  Ruagh  set  himself 
out  with  the  object  of  getting  possession  of  the  townland. 
He  got  the  local  schoolmaster,  Mick  Gallagher,  to  write 
out  a  form  saying  that :  ' '  We  who  have  signed  our  names 
hereunder  give  to  Mr.  Columb  Keeran  the  right  to  use  the 
lands  known  as  Crinnan  and  bounden,  etc.,  for  any  purpose 
which  he  sees  fit.  Signed  and  dated  under  our  hands  Anno 
Domini  18—" 

To  write  this  was  an  easy  job  for  Mick  Gallagher,  a 
scholar  second  to  none,  but  getting  possession  of  this  land, 
which  was  of  no  use  to  any  one  save  to  Columb  Ruagh 
Keeran,  was  a  job  beset  with  many  difficulties. 

Condy  Heelagh  would  give  his  portion  and  welcome, 
because  it  was  no  good  at  all  to  himself,  but  he  never  liked 
to  put  down  his  name  in  black  and  white  to  anything. 
One  never  knows,  you  know. 

"But  ye  cannot  write  at  all,  Condy,"  said  Mick  Gal- 
lagher, who  was  party  to  the  proceedings. 

"Well,  that's  the  reason  that  I  don't  want  to  begin," 
said  the  astute  Condy. 

"Ye  don't  need  to  write  at  all,"  the  master  explained. 
"All  that  ye  need  to  do  is  this,"  and  as  he  spoke,  the 
schoolmaster  stuck  his  forefinger  against  the  soot  on  the 
back  of  the  chimney  and  drew  a  cross  on  the  limewashed 
wall. 

"With  soot,  like  that?"  Condy  questioned. 

"No,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "Just  with  the  pen  on 
white  paper." 

Seeing  that  drawing  a  cross  was  such  a  simple  thing, 
and  being  fascinated  by  its  novelty,  Condy  Heelagh  signed 
away  his  property  in  Crinnan. 

Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  would  not  sign.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  putting  his  name  down  like  Condy  Heelagh.  He  knew 
the  world  and  was  a  scholar,  a  man  who  could  read  and 


136  MAUREEN 

write.  But  that  and  all  he  was  not  going  to  sign  anything. 
If  it  was  the  man  that  had  the  place  close  on  forty  years 
ago  he  would  sign  Crinnan,  aye  and  his  own  house  and 
home  over  to  him,  for  he  was  a  man  that  could  do  things. 
The  potheen  that  this  man  (long  dead  he  is,  God  rest  him !) 
made  was  the  best  that  Coy  ever  drank  in  the  barony. 
Crinnan  was  no  good  for  setting  or  grazing  or  cutting 
turf,  but  as  a  place  for  making  potheen  it  had  no  equal. 
If  a  man  took  the  place  to  make  potheen,  ah !  There  was 
a  world  of  meaning  in  the  expressive  ah!  and  the  wink 
which  accompanied  it. 

A  week  later  Columb  brought  Coy  a  bottle  of  potheen, 
and  Coy  signed  away  his  right  to  part,  portion  and  share 
of  the  Crinnan  uplands. 

The  potheen  worked  miracles  with  others.  Columb 
seemed  able  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  stuff,  not  only  in  bot- 
tles but  in  jars  and  kegs.  Whisky  was  dear  to  buy,  and 
after  all,  leaving  aside  the  taste,  potheen  had  just  the  same 
effect  as  bottled  usquebagh  from  O 'Ryan's  shop  in  Strana- 
rachary.  And  then  potheen  could  be  had  for  next  to 
nothing,  just  for  the  mere  signing  away  of  land  that  was 
good  for  neither  man  nor  beast. 

Besides,  poor  Columb  wanted  a  home,  and  a  man  that 
had  the  courage  to  go  and  live  up  there  in  Crinnan  at  the 
back  of  Godspeed  deserved  to  be  helped.  And  the  people 
would  help  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran,  a  dacent  man,  a  man 
without  his  heart  in  the  penny  piece,  a  respectable  young- 
ster, a  credit  to  the  place,  etc.,  etc.  So  they  signed  over 
the  land,  drank  the  free  potheen  while  Columb  chuckled 
in  his  beard  and  added  to  his  acres. 

But  success  is  not  for  every  day,  and  Columb  Ruagh 
found  this  to  his  cost  when  he  called  on  Mr.  Brogan.  Now 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan  had  big  footing  in  Crinnan,  rights 
due  to  luck  of  birth,  accident  of  death  and  hazard  of  mar, 
riage.  When  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  spoke  to  Mr.  Bro- 
gan about  the  matter,  Mr.  Brogan  said :  ' '  See  Cassie  She- 
mus  Meehal  about  it."  This  Columb  did. 

He  found  the  woman  in  her  home  washing  some  clothes, 


COLUMB  KUAGH  KEERAN       137 

a  washboard  and  tub  on  a  chair  by  the  door,  her  arms 
elbow-deep  in  soapsuds. 

"Well,  good  day  to  ye,  Cassie  Shemus,"  said  Columb, 
as  if  something  mutually  interesting  and  known  to  both 
had  just  occurred  and  gave  him  the  privilege  of  opening 
the  conversation  in  this  familiar  manner. 

"Well,  good  day  to  yerself,  Columb  Ruagh,"  said  Cas- 
sie. "It's  long,  long  since  I've  seen  ye  over  this  door- 
step." 

"Not  since  your  poor  father  died,  God  rest  him!"  said 
Columb  Ruagh,  with  a  sound  something  between  a  dry 
cough  and  a  sigh,  which  possibly  was  intended  for  an  ex- 
pression of  grief. 

' '  I  mind  ye  comin '  then, ' '  said  Cassie  with  a  wry  pucker 
of  her  lips.  "I  mind  ye  at  the  wake  but  not  at  the  bury- 
in'." 

"I  was  only  a  gasair  then,"  said  Columb.  "Comin'  on 
fifteen  only. ' ' 

"  'Twas  old  Columb  that  wasn't  at  the  buryin'  either," 
said  Cassie,  rubbing  a  red  flannel  shirt  against  the  fluted 
ridging  of  the  washboard.  "I  suppose  it  was  the  shillin' 
for  offerin's  that  kept  him  away." 

"Well,  he  was  a  funny  old  laddybuck  anyway,"  said 
Columb  flippantly,  striving  to  appear  humored  at  his  fa- 
ther's parsimony.  "But  that's  gone  and  past  and  the  old 
times  were  the  funny  times." 

"Well,  I  suppose  ye  haven't  come  here  for  nothing" 
said  the  woman,  putting  her  hands  to  her  side  and  looking 
at  Columb  Buagh.  "Ye  haven't  come  here  for  nothin',  so 
out  with  it,  whatever  it  is,  and  let  me  get  on  with  me 
work." 

"This  is  the  way  iv  it,  then,"  said  Columb,  feeling  that 
it  would  be  wise  to  place  the  facts  of  the  case  before  her 
as  succinctly  as  possible.  "Ye 're  a  business  woman,  a  re- 
spectable woman  and  dacent  into  the  bargain.  It's  about 
Crinnan.  I'm  trying  to  get  a  bit  iv  that  land  up  there, 
that's  no  good  for  man  or  baste  and  that's  iv  as  little  use 
to  any  one  as  a  patch,  on  the  backside  of  a  scarecrow.  I'm 


138  MAUREEN 

a  poor  man;  Cassie  Shemus,  without  any  home  but  what 
the  tinkers  stay  at  night  in,  but  a  poor  man  must  do  some- 
thin'  to  take  in  the  bread  and  butter.  Now  somethin'  to 
warm  the  discourse  afore  we  go  any  further,"  said  Co- 
lumb,  taking  a  black  bottle  from  his  pocket. 

"This  is  the  best  iv  stuff,  and  a  wee  drop  is  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world,"  he  went  on.  "And  if  ye  want  fossaid 
for  sprains  or  airrid1  (ye've  airrid  on  yer  wrists,  Cassie 
Shemus  Meehal),  I'll  give  ye  as  much  as  ye  want  and  never 
ask  ye  for  a  penny  for  it.  And  ..." 

"That's  enough,"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  breaking 
in  on  his  discourse  and  clutching  the  rim  of  the  washing 
tub.  "Scoot!  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  iv  yer  old 
snash." 

"But  listen  to  me,"  said  Columb. 

"Scoot!"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 

"Listen.     Just  a  minute!     Listen!" 

"Ye '11  get  this  down  yer  back  if  ye 're  not  out  iv  the 
house  at  once,"  said  the  woman,  lifting  the  tub  from  the 
chair. 

"But  the  land  that  ye  have  up  there  ye  never  make  use 
iv,"  said  Columb.  "Ye've  neither  sheep  nor — " 

She  raised  the  tub  and  with  a  mighty  heave  flung  its 
contents  towards  him.  The  full  force  of  the  water  caught 
the  man  on  the  neck  and  almost  tossed  him  over.  He 
heaved  out  of  it,  steaming,  spluttering  and  choking. 

"Scoot!"  he  heard  Cassie  shout. 

"Ye  dhirty  bitch  iv  hell,"  yelled  Columb.  "For  two 
straws  I'd  wring  yer  neck  from  yer  shoulder." 

He  made  a  step  towards  her,  then  as  if  thinking  better 
of  it  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away,  the  soapy 
water  running  from  his  coat  on  to  his  trousers  and  from 
his  trousers  into  his  boots. 

In  the  days  that  followed  the  man  was  the  prey  of  two 
desires,  one  the  acquisition  of  money,  the  second  to 
get  the  acres  which  by  luck  of  birth,  accident  of  death  and 
hazard  of  marriage  belonged  to  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  and 
his  woman,  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal.  In  the  first  he  was 

lAirrid.    Hacks  and  scars  on  the  skin  caused  by  weather  and  work. 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       139 

successful.  Crinnan,  fenced  and  drained  all  by  the  labor 
of  one  man,  had  changed  from  a  wilderness  into  first-class 
grazing  ground  that  Columb  kept  white  with  fleeces.  Money 
was  pouring  in  and  Columb  was  now  reputed  to  be  the 
richest  man  in  the  parish ;  ' '  and  all  that  money  was  made 
on  a  keg  of  potheen,"  Dungarrow  said. 

Seventeen  years  following  the  date  on  which  he  took 
possession  of  the  house  at  Crinnan  cross-roads,  a  certain 
incident  occurred  in  the  house  of  Sally  Rourke,  and  follow- 
ing this  incident  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  saw  a  means  to- 
wards an  end  and  the  realization  of  a  desire. 

IV 

Darkness  had  long  since  fallen,  and  a  moon,  full  the 
previous  night,  was  rising  over  the  hills  of  Tirconail,  which 
showed  in  dark,  bulky  masses  against  the  Eastern  sky. 
The  river  that  rose  from  the  Crinnan  uplands  could  be 
heard  wailing  its  way  down  the  holms  to  the  sea,  and  the 
clusters  of  hazel-bushes  which  lined  the  stream  looked  like 
gangs  of  evil  specters  plotting  mischief  in  the  gloom.  Sky 
and  land  were  speckled  with  stars,  heavenly  and  earthly, 
stellary  and  paraffin,  the  first  gleaming  from  the  unutter- 
able deep,  the  second  from  the  cabins  of  Dungarrow. 

Amidst  these  earthly  stars,  one  gleamed  from  the  win- 
dow of  Mr.  Brogan's  house,  where  that  habitation  rested 
snug  and  sheltered  in  a  groin  of  land  on  the  Meenaroodagh 
braes.  The  being  of  this  particular  star  was  a  paraffin 
lamp  without  a  globe  which  stood  on  the  kitchen  table  and 
shed  a  hard  glow  on  the  interior  of  the  house,  lighting 
up  the  delf  on  the  dresser,  the  clock  over  the  fireplace  and 
the  dog  lying  on  the  hearth,  its  nose  resting  on  its  fore- 
paws  and  the  paws  stuck  in  the  turf  ashes. 

Only  one  person  was  now  in  the  house,  Mr.  Brogan. 
His  wife,  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  as  she  was  still  known, 
had  left  the  house  half  an  hour  ago  with  the  intention  of 
going  to  Paddy  Keefe's  shop  for  provisions,  leaving  her 
man  to  take  care  of  the  house  during  her  absence.  "Take 
and  look  at  the  fire  and  don't  let  it  out  when  I'm  away," 


140  MAUREEN 

she  said  as  a  parting  behest.  "And  don't  let  the  cat  at 
the  crame,  and  don't  sit  in  the  chair  all  the  time  with  one 
hand  as  long  as  the  other ! ' ' 

"I'll  do  as  ye  bid  me,  Cassie,"  said  Eamon  passively, 
•without  rising  from  his  seat. 

At  the  present  moment  the  fire  was  almost  out  and  the 
cat,  surfeited  on  cream  from  the  crock  on  the  dresser,  was 
lying  on  the  roof-beam  asleep.  Neither  of  these  happen- 
ings had  been  noticed  by  Eamon,  who  was  still  seated  on 
the  chair  by  the  table  just  as  his  wife  had  left  him,  both 
arms  hanging  limp  by  his  side,  his  mouth  open  and  his 
eyes  fixed  in  a  vacant  stare  at  the  opposite  wall.  Once  he 
roused  himself,  pressed  both  hands  against  his  kidneys 
and  seemed  as  on  the  point  of  rising.  But  thinking  better 
of  it,  as  it  seemed,  he  shook  his  head  gloomily  and  relapsed 
into  the  old  pithless  posture. 

' '  Fate ! "  he  moaned,  feebly.  * '  Fate !  Can  I  endure  it  ? 
Can  I  endure  it?" 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  low  sound  startled  him.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  bag  of  wool  or  meal  was  being  drawn  across  the 
street.  How  it  could  be  drawn  was  a  mystery  as  the  man 's 
cars  could  not  detect  the  sound  of  footsteps.  Immediately 
he  was  on  his  feet,  however,  for  he  suddenly  realized  that 
Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  would  be  back  now  at  any  moment. 
He  looked  at  the  fire.  It  was  almost  out.  At  the  milk- 
crock.  The  lid  was  off,  the  dresser  was  white,  telling  of 
the  depredations  of  the  cat.  And  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal 
was  outside ! 

There  are  moments  when  fear  gives  way  to  reckless- 
ness. Such  a  moment  had  come  to  Mr.  Brogan.  He  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  assumed  an  aggressive  pose  and 
looked  at  the  window. 

"Let  her  come!"  he  said,  but  not  daring  to  raise  his 
voice  above  a  whisper,  "and  I'll  show  Cassie  Shemus  Mee- 
hal that  I'm  not  as  big  a  plaisham  as  she  makes  me  out 
to  be!" 

The  window  had  no  blind.  Through  it  the  man  could 
see  the  moon  big  and  white  heaving  itself  over  the  hill  of 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       141 

Crinnan.  And  with  the  moon,  but  nearer,  in  fact,  outside 
the  window-pane,  a  hand  rose,  closed  all  fingers  save  one, 
and  with  this  beckoned  to  Mr.  Brogan.  The  man  shud- 
dered, and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  every  member  of  his 
body,  while  the  solitary  finger  outside  the  window-pane 
kept  beckoning,  beckoning. 

"An  omen  of  danger!"  Eamon  gasped.  "A  portent  of 
evil!" 

The  hand  disappeared,  but  something  rose  to  take  its 
place,  rose  slowly,  and  Eamon  gazed  spellbound.  First 
came  into  view  a  shock  of  hair  standing  out  in  several 
ways,  every  tuft  working,  as  it  seemed,  on  wires  and  per- 
forming a  fantastic  dance  against  the  background  of  the 
moon.  Under  this  distortion  of  hair  was  a  pallid  brow, 
and  set  at  the  base  of  the  brow  was  a  pair  of  eyes,  which 
to  Eamon 's  distorted  imagination  burned  like  two  sparks 
from  the  flames  of  hell.  The  finger  rose  again  and  beck- 
oned. The  apparition  wanted  Mr.  Brogan. 

"It's  Columb  Ruagh!"  gasped  Eamon.  "Now  what 
will  he  be  wantin'  me  for?" 

Columb  disappeared,  and  Mr.  Brogan  with  one  hasty 
rush  put  the  lid  on  the  crock,  gave  the  milk-strewn  dresser 
a  rub  with  the  dishcloth,  and  threw  half  a  dozen  turf  on 
the  fire.  Then  he  went  out. 

At  the  angle  formed  where  a  stack  of  turf  rested  on  the 
end  wall  of  the  house,  something  moved. 

"  Hi ! "  hissed  a  voice. 

Eamon  went  towards  the  figure,  which  moved  away  as 
the  householder  neared  it.  In  this  manner,  without  a 
word,  the  two  men  proceeded  until  two-hundred  yards 
separated  them  from  the  house,  Columb  Kuagh  in  front 
and  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  in  rear.  Suddenly  the  leading 
man  stopped,  placed  a  burden  which  he  carried  on  the 
ground  and  lay  down  beside  it.  Eamon  reached  him  and 
also  stopped.  He  looked  down  at  the  red-haired  man,  who, 
flat  on  his  back,  was  stroking  his  mustache  with  a  slow, 
methodical  hand. 

"Sit  down  on  yer  bottom,  Eamon,"  he  said  in  a  low, 


142  MAUREEN 

impressive  voice.  "Sit  down  and  listen  till  I  tell  ye  some- 
thin'." 

"But  it's  too  cold  to  sit  out  here  when  there's  a  good 
fire  to  sit  at  in  the  house  below,"  said  Eamon.  "It's  yer 
death  iv  cold  that  ye '11  be  gettin'  out  here." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Columb,  "beside  me,  and  the  sucker 
that  I  bought  at  the  fair  the  day." 

Eamon  still  stood  irresolute,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Columb. 

"It's  the  death  iv  cold  that  ye '11  be  gettin',  Mr.  Keeran," 
he  repeated. 

"Sit  down,  Eamon,"  Columb  insisted  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. "It's  for  yer  own  good,  mind,  what  I'm  goin'  to 
say  to  ye.  All's  fair  and  above  board  between  us  two, 
Eamon!  Ye  know  that.  We've  traveled  beyont  the  water 
and  we  know  what's  what,  as  well  as  the  measure  iv  one 
another.  We're  business  men,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan — or  if 
ye  like,  Mr.  Brogan.  So  get  down  on  yer  bottom  be  the 
side  iv  me  and  listen  to  what  I've  to  say." 

Eamon  sat  down  without  a  word. 

"Listen  to  me,"  began  Columb  in  an  affable  tone,  though 
it  was  evident  to  Eamon  that  something  vaguely  threaten- 
ing lurked  under  the  quiet,  lazy  voice.  ' '  I  came  along  here 
the  night  just  to  see  ye  and  have  it  out  about  somethin* 
with  ye.  What  that  somethin'  is,  I'll  tell  ye  in  a  minit. 
But  first,  Eamon,  I  want  to  ask  ye  a  question.  It's  a 
straight  question,  and  knowin*  yerself  as  I  do  I'm  sure 
that  ye '11  give  a  straight  answer.  The  question's  this, 
Eamon.  Do  ye  know  me  for  what  I  am?  No,  wait  a 
minit" — this  as  Eamon  gave  a  preliminary  cough  before 
replying — "wait  a  minit  till  I  explain  meself  fully.  I'm 
not  sayin'  that  ye  don't  know  what  I  mane.  Not  that, 
Eamon,  but  what  I  mane  is  this.  I'm  no  hand  at  speakin'. 
I  can  never  make  meself  understood  like  a  scholar,  for  I 
haven't  the  learnin'.  It  takes  me  a  week  to  say  what  ye 
could  get  yer  tongue  round  in  two  words.  That's  it.  I'm 
a  rough  mountainy  man  without  the  learnin'.  Listen. 
This  is  what  I  mane,  Eamon,  when  I  ask  ye  'Do  ye  know 
me  for  what  I  am  ? '  It 's  like  this.  I  'm  a  man  that  keeps 
to  himself  away  up  there  at  the  Crinnan  cross-roads  doin* 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       143 

my  best  to  make  ends  meet,  what  with  one  thing  and  an- 
other. But  it's  a  hard  job  that,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  and  I'm  a 
poor  man,  Eamon,  a  poor  man.  Ye  believe  that,  Eamon, 
don't  ye?" 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  Eamon  assented  weakly,  though 
thinking  otherwise. 

' '  I  'm  also  a  man  that  people  would  think  tight-fisted  and 
hard,"  Columb  continued.  "But  it's  not  the  case  at  all. 
I'm  a  man  with  the  ready  hand  when  I  see  a  person  in 
trouble.  Give  me  a  chance  to  do  a  good  turn  and  I'll  do 

it.    That's  me,  Eamon  na  Sgad Mr.  Brogan,  I  mane. 

.  .  .  Even  the  day  when  I  was  comin'  back  from  the  fair 
I  saw  them  two  stirks  iv  Sally  Rourke's  on  the  mortgaged 
land,  and  it's  not  the  first  time  that  I  saw  them  there 
either.  What  did  I  do,  Eamon,  Mr.  Brogan,  I  mane  ?  This, 
and  nothin'  else.  I  went  up  to  her  house  and  there  she 
was  there  havin'  her  shin-heat  be  the  fire.  And  says  I  to 
her, '  Them  two  stirks  iv  yers,  Sally,  Sprikkles  and  Branny, 
are  up  on  the  mortgaged  land,  it  that  used  to  belong  to 
Kathleen  0  'Malley,  God  rest  her !  at  one  time  and  now  be- 
longs to  me  on  account  iv  the  twenty  gold  sovereigns  that 
I  gave  her  when  she  was  hard  up  with  the  back  iv  every 
one's  hand  to  her.  Them  two  stirks  iv  yer  own  are  the 
divils  for  grass  that's  sweet,  Sally,'  says  I.  But  that  was 
me  fun,  and  Sally  is  always  slow  to  take  offense  when  I'm 
spakin'  to  her.  Sally,  if  not  another  person  in  the  parish, 
knows  me  for  what  I  am.  It's  her  that  has  the  good  hearty 
word  for  me  whenever  she  meets  me  at  Mass  or  Market. 
That's  Sally! 

"  'Yes,  they're  two  rascally  vagabones,  them  same  stirks/ 
says  she.  'I'm  after  them  when  I  can,  but  an  ould  woman 
like  me  hasn't  the  legs  iv  a  young  girsha.  It's  short 
iv  wind  that  I  am  now  at  the  heel  iv  the  day,'  says  she. 
'But  that  and  all,  I'm  not  the  woman  to  let  me  cattle 
bastes  graze  on  a  neighbor  when  there's  life  in  me 
body.' 

"  'That  I  know,  Sally  Rourke,'  says  I.  'And  that's 
why  I  came  in  to  see  ye.  I  didn't  want  ye,  and  ye  so  on 
in  years  and  at  the  shut  iv  day,  too,  to  wander  over  the 


144  MAUREEN 

hill  and  keep  on  the  tail  iv  them  two  stirks.  Don't  pay 
any  heed  to  them  the  night,  Sally,'  says  I,  just  like  that. 
'There's  grass  and  enough  on  the  mortgaged  land,  and 
the  two  stirks  can  have  as  much  as  they  want  iv  it.  It's  a 
hard-hearted  man,  Sally,'  says  I,  'that  would  have  ye  run- 
nin'  after  young  stirks  after  what  ye  have  done  for  the 
people  iv  the  Glen.  'Twas  yerself  always  was  the  one  to 
go  to  with  all  complaints  from  a  sprained  finger  to  a 
broken  back.'  That's  what  I  said,  Eamon.  that  and  more 
to  the  same  tune  was  what  crossed  me  mouth.  To  think 
that  I  'd  have  the  poor  ould  woman  runnin '  after  the  stirks 
through  the  hills  in  the  black  iv  night  went  against  the 
grain  iv  me,  for  I  thought  as  anybody  else  with  a  grain  iv 
commonsense  would  have  thought.  Isn't  Sally  the  first 
woman  to  hand  when  a  soul  enters  the  world?  Sally  at 
the  beginnin'  and  the  priest  at  the  end!  But  if  Sally 
hadn't  done  her  job  at  the  beginnin'  and  done  it  well 
there's  no  job  for  the  priest  at  the  finish.  Amn't  I  talkin' 
sense,  Eamon,  answer  me  now?" 

"Of  course  ye 're  talkin'  sense,  as  you  always  do,"  said 
Eamon  with  a  slight  shiver  as  if  the  cold  night  air  was 
chilling  him. 

"But  it's  gettin'  cold  that  ye  are  here,  sittin'  down  on 
the  wet  stubble  and  the  rain  not  dried  out  iv  it  yet,"  said 
Columb  in  a  tone  of  concern,  looking  at  the  man  who 
was  now  lying  on  the  ground  beside  him.  "Ye  shouldn't 
have  come  out  without  yer  coat,  and  a  muffler,  too,  for 
there's  a  nip  in  the  weather.  May's  always  a  month  that 
can't  be  trusted." 

"No,  it  never  can  be  trusted,"  said  Eamon  in  a  relieved 
voice  as  he  got  to  his  feet  and  shook  himself.  "I'll  just 
get  down  to  the  house  and  have  a  heat  be  the  fire,  and  ye  '11 
come  down  too  and  have  a  sup  iv  tay  afore  ye  go  up  the 
road  to  Crinnan.  It's  a  long  step  in  front  iv  ye,  Mr. 
Keeran.  But  for  all  that  a  man  gets  warm  on  his  f3et 
when  he's  shakin'  them.  And  if  ye 're  not  comin'  down 
with  me  to  have  a  sup  iv  tay,  I  '11  just  walk  with  ye  to  the 
road  and  see  ye  on  yer  way  safe. ' ' 

"But  I  haven't  said  'No'  to  goin*  down  with  ye  to  have 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       145 

a  drop  iv  tay,  Eamon,"  said  Columb,  turning  slowly  on 
his  side,  placing  his  elbow  in  the  ground  and  resting  his 
face  in  the  cup  of  his  hand.  "I  haven't  said  'No'  to  it, 
but  I'm  not  goin'  down  there,  thankin'  ye  for  yer  invita- 
tion all  the  same.  I  would  like  to  go,  but  I'm  a  poor  man, 
Eamon,  and  there's  so  much  for  me  to  do  up  at  home  that 
I  haven't  the  time  to  spend  down  here.  It's  a  bad  wicked 
world  when  ye  come  to  think  iv  it.  Ye've  to  scringe  and 
rake  and  scrape  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other,  and  no 
matter  how  hard  ye  scrape  and  save  ye 're  as  poor  on  it 
at  Hall 'eve  as  ye  were  on  Candlemas  Day." 

He  now  spoke  slowly  and  laboriously  as  if  the  weariness 
of  making  money  had  crept  into  his  tongue.  Eamon 
walked  backwards  a  pace,  rubbed  the  toe  of  his  boot  against 
the  ground  and  sighed. 

"It's  a  hard  world,  Mr.  Keeran,"  he  said. 

"For  some  iv  us,"  said  Columb,  "but  not  for  all.  The 
hand  of  God  is  heavy  on  some  iv  us  and  the  hand  iv  man 
heavy  on  others.  And  on  some  the  hand  iv  God  and  man 
is  heavy.  And  I  know  one  that's  sufferin'  in  that  way,  a 
poor  soul  that  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  world  and  as  far 
as  the  look  iv  things  go  not  a  friend  in  heaven.  D'ye 
know  who  I'm  meaning,  Mr.  Brogan?  You're  a  man  and 
a  scholar  and  one  that's  quick  to  get  the  hinge  of  things. 
Now  d'ye  know  who  I  mane?" 

"I  don't  know,  Columb,"  said  Eamon  in  a  whisper. 

"Well,  that's  strange,"  Columb  continued  mercilessly. 
"It's  a  neighbor  iv  yers.  Now  d'ye  know?" 

"Not  Sally  Rourke?"  asked  Eamon  in  an  agitated  whis- 
per. Though  deep  down  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  Columb 
was  not  referring  to  Sally  Rourke,  he  had  still  a  flimsy 
hope  that  it  might  be  Sally. 

"No,  it's  not  her,"  said  Columb  in  an  oily  voice.  "Poor 
Sally  has  her  sorrows,  as  I've  said,  but  still  she  has  heart 
to  be  sorry  for  a  neighbor  that's  worse  off  nor  herself.  A 
young  neighbor,  too,  at  that.  Now  d'ye  know  who  it 
is?" 

Eamon  sank  down  on  both  knees,  holding  one  hand  in 
the  other  and  fixed  a  piteous  look  on  Columb  Ruagh. 


146  MAUKEEN 

"I  don't  know  what  ye  mane,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  who 
it  is,  Columb  ?  Tell  me !  Tell  me ! " 

"Ye  look  feeard,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  Columb,  in  a  tone 
which  seemed  charged  with  mock  sympathy.  "Or  is  it 
sick  that  ye  are  gettin'  with  the  cold!  Ye 're  white,  too. 
Are  ye  feeard  iv  somethin',  Mr.  Brogan?" 

"Oh!  I'm  all  right,"  said  Eamon  with  a  hollow  laugh, 
getting  to  his  feet  again.  "But  tell  me  who  ye  mane." 

"Tell  you  who  I  mane,"  said  Columb,  and  there  was 
something  almost  caustic  in  his  voice.  "Well,  I  will  that, 
but  it's  funny  that  it's  yerself  iv  all  men  that  doesn't  know 
who  I  mane.  Everybody  else  knows,  every  one  to  the  butt 
iv  the  barony  and  beyond.  Every  one  knows  the  one  that 
I'm  talkin'  about  and  every  one's  sayin'  this  and  that, 
one  thing  worse  than  the  other.  It's  funny  the  way  that 
people  talk  about  things  that  is  no  consarn  iv  their  own. 
Isn't  it  now,  Mr.  Brogan?" 

He  looked  at  Eamon.  In  the  moonlight  he  could  see 
the  brows  of  the  poor  man  contract  as  if  he  were  on  the 
point  of  undertaking  something  wild  and  reckless.  All 
this  seemed  to  give  Columb  a  cruel  pleasure.  His  policy 
of  wearing  the  man  down  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of 
working  its  purpose,  whatever  that  purpose  was.  Eamon 
coughed,  opened  his  mouth  as  if  on  the  point  of  speaking, 
then  closed  his  mouth  again. 

"People  are  never  happy  unless  they're  talkin'  iv  things 
that's  no  consarn  iv  their  own,"  Columb  urged.  "I'm 
talkin'  the  truth,  amn't  I,  Mr.  Brogan?" 

"It's  a  true  word,"  Eamon  acquiesced  lamely. 

"True  as  Gospel,"  Columb  went  on,  casually,  it  being 
yet  his  pleasure  to  give  with  catlike  grace  his  mouse  a  few 
seconds  of  perilous  freedom.  "And  it's  the  way  iv  the 
world  since  the  start  iv  time.  Some  people  are  such  spawn 
that  they  are  never  happy  unless  they're  talkin'  scandal 
and  runnin'  down  their  neighbors.  I  can't  stand  people 
iv  that  get,  Columb,  but  that  and  all  what  can  I  do  ?  Noth- 
in'  at  all.  I'm  one  man  against  the  whole  world  when  I 
stand  up  for  people  that's  down.  The  only  person  that 
I've  met  to  look  eye  to  eye  with  me  is  Sally  Rourke,  and 


COLUMB  KUAGH  KEERAN       147 

when  she  sees  a  neighbor  worse  off  nor  herself  she's  ready 
to  lend  her  a  helpin'  hand.  Lend  her,  I  said,  and  I  didn't 
mean  to.  But  now  that  I  Ve  said  her  I  will  stick  to  it.  It 's 
a  woman  that  the  people  are  talkin'  about,  Mr.  Brogan.  It 
is  for  a  woman  that  Sally  Rourke  has  the  kind  word,  and 
I,  meself,  poor  as  I  am,  had  the  ready  hand  when  I  saw 
the  poverty  that  she  was  in.  Now  ye  do  know  who  it  is 
that  I  am  manin',  Mr.  Brogan?" 

The  claw  was  stretched  out  and  the  mouse  drawn  in 
again. 

"Maureen  O'Malley  that  ye  are  manin',  is  it?"  Eamon 
asked  in  a  thick  whisper,  looking  full  in  Columb's  face  as 
if  the  eyes  of  the  red-haired  man  fascinated  him. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  said  Columb  quietly,  with  the 
calm,  easy,  horrible  composure  of  a  Grand  Inquisitor  turn- 
ing the  lever  of  the  thumbscrew.  "That  is  the  girl,  her 
that's  left  her  lone  on  the  world  now  with  not  a  soul  to 
take  care  iv  her !  Her  poor  mother  dead,  killed  be  want, 
sufferin',  and  be  the  man  that  was  guilty  iv  her  sin  and 
then  left  her  to  herself  when  she  got  into  trouble.  Who 
the  man  is  doesn't  matter  now.  Whoever  he  is  and  what- 
ever he  is,  there's  one  thing  certain  about  him.  He  owes 
every  penny  in  his  hands  to  help  that  girl,  Maureen  Mai- 
ley.  If  he  was  too  big  a  vagabone  to  give  the  girl  his 
name  it's  as  little  as  he  can  do  to  give  the  girl  his  money. 
Me,  for  example,  me  that's  supposed  to  be  a  rough  moun- 
tainy  gulpin',  without  a  word  iv  learnin'  in  me  head,  look 
at  me !  I  met  the  poor  girl  on  the  road  the  day  and  with- 
out a  word,  when  I  saw  the  tears  comin'  from  her  eyes 
and  runnin'  down  her  cheeks,  I  put  me  hand  in  me  pocket 
and  gave  her  out  twenty  gold  pounds  and  says :  '  Get  yer- 
self  somethin'  for  that,  Maureen,  and  don't  cry.'  That's 
what  I  said  to  the  girl,  Mr.  Brogan,  and  that's  the  money 
that  I  gave  to  her  and  me  a  poor  man  too.  And  I  gave  it 
to  her,  not  the  same  as  charity,  but  as  if  I  was  drivin'  a 
hard  bargain  with  her.  I  pretended  that  I  wanted  a 
piece  iv  land,  her  share  iv  the  hill  iv  Crinnan,  the  rest 
iv  the  hill  belonging  to  yerself  and  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal, 
Mr.  Brogan." 


148  MAUREEN 

He  paused  and  kept  silent  for  a  moment. 

"And  for  that  bit  iv  the  hill,  that  would  never  be  any 
good  to  her,  for  she  hasn't  the  money  to  stock  it,  I  gave 
her  twenty  pounds  in  gold, ' '  he  went  on.  ' '  Twenty  pounds, 
Mr.  Brogan,  and  me  a  poor  man,  too.  But  I  couldn't  see 
her  goin'  round  on  her  lone  in  her  sorrow  with  maybe 
hardly  a  bite  to  ate  from  the  shriek  iv  dawn  to  the  shut  iv 
day.  Now,  Mr.  Brogan,  don't  ye  think" — Columb  got  to 
his  feet  and  came  close  to  Eamon,  who  for  the  past  five 
minutes  kept  his  eyes  obstinately  fixed  on  the  toe  of  his 
boot — "don't  ye  think  that  I  did  the  right  thing  to  the 
poor  girsha?" 

"Ye  did  the  right  thing,"  Eamon  answered. 

"And  I  wasn't  the  man  to  blame  in  the  beginnin',  was 
I?"  Columb  persisted. 

"I  don't  know  what  ye 're  manin',  Columb,"  said  Eamon 
in  a  voice  of  anguish. 

"Well,  I'll  explain,"  said  Columb,  taking  his  pipe  from 
the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  putting  it  in  his  mouth.  "I'll 
explain  what's  in  my  head,  though  I'm  a  stupid  man  and 
not  as  deep  as  a  scholar.  I  never  was  at  school.  I  didn't 
even  meet  the  scholars.  In  a  word,  Mr.  Brogan,  I  'm  moun- 
tainy  and  thick  as  mud.  But  for  all  that  I  never  did  any- 
thing dirty  when  it  came  to  a  woman.  I  always  kept  me- 
self  respectable  and  dacent.  That's  me,  Mr.  Brogan,  that's 
old  Columb  for  ye.  There's  not  a  one  in  the  barony  that 
can  cast  anything  up  in  me  face.  If  they  could  they'd  do 
it,  for  it's  not  in  the  get  iv  any  one  to  make  it  easy  for  a 
person  that  makes  a  slip.  If  I  was  the  one  to  blame  in 
the  beginnin',  if  I  was  the  one  to  go  home  with  Kathleen 
Malley  from  the  dance  in  Neddy  Og  's  seventeen  years  gone 
last  Candlemas  I'd  never  hear  the  end  iv  it.  Would  I,  do 
ye  think,  Mr.  Brogan?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Eamon  in  a  whisper. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I  would  and  I  wouldn't  desarve  to 
if  I  treated  Kathleen  O 'Malley,  God  rest  her!  as  she  was 
treated  in  her  life  with  the  back  iv  the  hand  to  her  when- 
ever she  went  out  to  Mass  or  Market.  Why  didn  't  the  man 
that  was  the  one  to  blame  step  forward  and  give  his  name 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       149 

to  her  and  her  wean  and  make  her  right  in  the  eyes  iv  the 
world  and  the  eyes  iv  God?  Why  didn't  he  now?  I  put 
it  to  yerself,  why  didn't  he,  if  he  was  a  man  with  heart 
and  spirit?  If  he  wasn't  the  dirty  spawn  that  he  was, 
why  didn  't  he  ?  Why  didn  't  he,  Mr.  Brogan  ?  Why  didn  't 
he?" 

Although  up  till  now  Eamon  had  felt  the  cold  and  shiv- 
ered as  if  the  night  air  was  chilling  him,  he  suddenly  be- 
came hot,  stifling.  A  wave  of  warm  blood  charged  his 
body,  his  face  and  head,  and  throbbed  at  his  temple  veins 
as  if  it  would  burst  the  bounds  which  confined  it.  He 
spluttered  as  if  something  caught  in  his  throat,  coughed, 
swallowed,  spat,  then  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
and  gave  forth  a  few  unintelligible  sounds. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,"  said  Columb.  "Take  it  easy, 
Eamon.  It's  all  right." 

1 '  Why  didn 't  he,  you  ask,  Mr.  Keeran  ?  Why  didn 't  he  ?  " 
said  poor  Eamon  in  a  half -strangled  whisper. 

"That's  the  question,"  said  Columb  excitedly.  "Why 
didn 'the?" 

"Because,"  said  Eamon,  his  head  bent  to  the  ground, 
his  arms  hanging  limply. 

"Because  what?"  Columb  urged. 

"Because,"  said  Eamon,  straightening  himself  with  a 
jerk  and  catching  the  neck  of  his  waistcoat  with  both  hands 
as  if  baring  his  breast  to  receive  the  arrows  of  adverse  for- 
tune, "because  he  was  married  on  Cassie  Shemus  Mee- 
hal." 


The  house  was  in  complete  darkness.  Not  a  sound  issued 
from  the  dense  obscurity  as  Mr.  Brogan  crossed  the  thresh- 
old with  suspended  breath  and  timorous  footfall.  In  the 
blackness  of  the  interior  a  perfect  hush  reigned,  the  hush 
of  a  block  of  gun-cotton  before  the  spark  is  applied. 
Though  outside  the  moon  shone  with  its  silvery  gleam,  the 
blind  on  the  window,  drawn  tight  by  Cassie  Shemus  Mee- 
hal,  refused  to  let  one  ray  enter  the  room.  Unable  to  see 


150  MAUREEN 

the  woman  in  the  darkness,  Mr.  Brogan  was  yet  conscious 
of  a  hostile  presence  and  susceptible  to  properties  which 
though  hidden  seemed  to  possess  dynamic  energy,  omnip- 
otent though  unseen.  He  shuddered,  but  bracing  him- 
self he  went  towards  the  window  and  groped  for  some- 
thing on  the  sill. 

Striking  a  match  he  turned  up  the  wick  of  the  paraffin 
lamp  and  lit  it.  Then  turning  round  he  looked  at  the  bed. 
His  wife  lay  there,  her  knees  curled  up  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  man.  Everything  else  was  just  as  he  left  it  when 
he  went  out,  with  the  exception  of  the  fire  and  the  bed. 
The  first  was  raked,  the  second  occupied.  Cassie  Shemus 
Meehal  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Well,  you're  back  again,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice. 
This  was  a  preliminary,  something  that  could  not  be  gain- 
said. She  usually  began  in  this  manner,  husbanding  her 
resources  judiciously  at  the  start,  knowing  that  she  would 
need  them  all  before  she  came  to  the  end  of  her  usual 
flush  of  vituperative  abuse. 

Eamon,  contrary  to  his  custom,  did  not  answer,  nor  make 
excuses  for  his  delinquency.  Instead,  he  reached  his  arm 
up  to  the  lip  of  the  wall  where  the  roof-beam  rested, 
groped  under  the  scraws  and  brought  therefrom  a  razor 
case.  Taking  out  the  razor  he  commenced  sharpening  it  on 
a  hone.  This  action  of  Eamon  having  no  precedent  some- 
what discomfited  the  woman. 

"What  are  ye  goin'  to  do?"  she  asked. 

Eamon,  busy  with  hone  and  razor,  made  no  answer. 

"Is  it  deaf  that  ye  are?"  she  shrieked.  "Do  ye  not  hear 
what  I'm  sayin'  to  ye?" 

Mr.  Brogan,  with  imperturbable  rear — his  back  was  to- 
wards Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  his  face  on  his  hone — con- 
tinued sharpening  the  razor. 

"Don't  ye  hear  me!"  she  yelled.  "Or  d'ye  not!  Burnin' 
all  the  oil  as  well  as  everything  else,"  she  added,  clutch- 
ing at  a  side  issue  as  she  floundered  from  the  straight  path 
of  original  intention. 

Eamon  turned  round,  coolly  thrust  up  his  sleeves,  and 
with  razor  in  hand  came  towards  the  bed,  stood  there,  an 


COLUMB  RUAGH  KEERAN       151 

air  of  profound  mystery  settling  on  his  face.  Never  had 
Cassie  seen  Mr.  Brogan  behave  in  this  way  before.  He 
was  not  like  other  men,  of  course,  and  a  man  who  is  not 
like  other  men  might  be  guilty  of  any  action  of  which  ordi- 
nary men  in  their  ordinary  senses  are  not  capable.  She 
looked  at  the  door,  then  at  her  husband.  He  was  now  giv- 
ing a  finishing  touch  to  the  razor  edge  by  rubbing  it  along 
his  forearm. 

"Goin'  to  shave  is  it  that  ye  are,  Eamon?"  she  asked, 
in  a  voice  of  astonishment,  suddenly  becoming  conscious 
of  something  not  altogether  in  keeping  with  ordinary  be- 
havior in  the  action  of  her  man. 

" Maybe  aye  and  maybe  no,"  Eamon  replied  in  a  gruff 
voice.  "The  razor  is  an  implement  that  can  be  used  for 
more  than  one  purpose." 

" Mother  iv  God,  what  do  ye  mane,  Eamon?"  shrieked 
the  woman,  and  the  shriek  had  a  quality  which  he  had 
never  heard  before  in  the  shriek  of  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 
"Under  God  the  day  and  the  night  what's  it  that  ye 're 
up  to  with  the  razor?" 

"It's  the  best-tempered  steel,  and  it  would  slit  a  throat 
as  easy  as  'twould  slit  a  new  turf,"  said  Eamon  medita- 
tively, as  if  talking  to  himself,  but  to  the  woman  trembling 
on  the  bed  the  words  were  fraught  with  horrible  signifi- 
cance. 

She  stared  at  him,  with  wide-open  eyes,  a  queer  shivery 
sensation  in  her  spine,  a  strange  troubled  thought  running 
through  her  mind.  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  was  going  mad. 

"I  was  always  the  good  wife  to  ye,  Eamon,"  said  Cassie, 
at  that  moment  recollecting  that  mad  men  may  be  easily 
led  away  from  their  purpose  by  a  very  slight  suggestion. 
"Always  the  good  wife  to  ye  I  was,  Eamon,  wasn't  I?" 

"Aye,"  Eamon  acquiesced  doubtfully  as  if  the  mono- 
syllable were  open  to  great  question.  A  cold  sweat  oozed 
out  on  the  woman's  forehead.  Eamon  had  changed  his 
position  and  was  now  between  her  and  the  door. 

"A  good  woman  t'ye,  Eamon,"  she  went  on  wildly. 
' '  Summer  and  winter  I  was  on  me  feet  at  the  earliest  minit 
in  the  mornin',  gettin'  things  ready  in  order  that  ye 


152  MAUREEN 

wouldn't  have  a  hard  day  iv  it  when  ye  got  up  yerself. 
Now  don't  ye  think  so  yerself  that  I  was  the  good  woman 
t'ye?" 

"Maybe,"  said  Eamon  with  an  almost  vicious  sweep  of 
the  razor  down  his  hairy  wrist. 

"And  the  way  that  I  used  to  make  the  tay  for  ye  and 
give  it  t'ye  in  the  bed,"  she  went  on.  The  storm  of  emo- 
tion in  her  brain  disturbed  the  sediment  of  half-forgotten 
memories  and  threw  them  to  the  surface  as  a  flood  tears 
at  the  fabric  of  an  ancient  river-bed  and  whirls  its  parts, 
portions  and  pieces  up  to  the  light  of  day.  "And  ye  mind 
the  way  that  I  used  to  take  it  t'ye,  Eamon,"  she  pleaded, 
* '  and  it  piping  hot  in  the  mornin '. ' ' 

"I  mind  it  well,"  Eamon  admitted  grimly.  "Three 
times  you  done  it,  after  the  marriage  seventeen  years 
ago." 

Another  remembrance  from  the  heel-tap  of  the  past 
surged  up  in  Cassie's  mind.  People  who  go  mad  show  a 
preference  to  attack  whose  whom  they  love  best.  "And 
it  is  the  wrong  thing  that  I'm  doin',"  she  stammered  to 
herself  in  a  whisper. 

"I  wasn't  a  good  wife  to  ye  at  all,  Eamon,"  she  shouted, 
hastening  to  retrieve  her  past  blunders.  "I  never  treated 
ye  as  a  man  ought  to  be  treated.  Don 't  forget  that,  mind. ' ' 

"I'll  not,"  said  Eamon,  testing  the  temper  of  the  steel 
with  his  thumb.  "No  fear  iv  me  letting  that  out  iv  me 
mind." 

"And  what  is  that  ye 're  manin'  to  do  at  all?"  she 
gasped,  feeling  herself  in  the  position  of  one  who  has 
changed  rooms  in  a  burning  house.  Eamon  looked  at  her; 
then  as  if  the  razor  had  not  passed  its  test  he  recom- 
menced sharpening  it  on  his  forearm.  In  fact  he  was  now 
feeling  terrified  himself.  The  position  in  which  he  found 
himself  was  so  novel,  so  unprecedented  in  the  history  of 
his  marital  relations  that  he  felt  he  could  not  endure  it 
much  longer.  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  was  terrified,  and 
Mr.  Brogan  was  at  a  loss  as  to  how 'he  could  take  advan- 
tage of  this  terror.  But  something  had  to  be  done,  some- 
thing drastic. 


COLUMB  EUAGH  KEERAN       153 

He  stopped  rubbing  the  weapon  and,  holding  it  by  the 
haft,  he  looked  at  the  woman  in  the  bed. 

' '  I  'm  desperate, ' '  he  blurted  out,  setting  his  teeth.  * '  I  'm 
a  man  that  has  never  had  his  way,  but  from  now  f orrit  I  'm 
goin'  to  have  it!  I've  seen  the  way  that  business  has  been 
carried  on  here  by  you,  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  and  I 
don 't  approve  of  it !  From  now  on  I  'm  goin '  to  be  master 
here  myself  and  no  one  else ! ' ' 

"Iv  course,  Eamon,  iv  course,"  said  the  woman  sooth- 
ingly, with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  he  said,  waving  his  razor  in  the 
air  as  if  the  woman's  approval  of  his  changed  views  was 
a  matter  of  no  consequence.  "I've  begun  the  night  to 
show  that  I'm  master  here.  The  night  I've  sold  that  bit 
iv  land  up  be  the  Crinnan  cross-roads  to  Columb  Ruagh 
Keeran,  and  what  I've  got  for  it  doesn't  matter  to  anybody 
bar  meself." 

"Iv  course,  Eamon,  iv  course,"  said  the  woman.  "Ye 're 
master  here  and  nobody  can  gainsay  that." 

"Now  make  iv  that  whatever  ye  like,"  he  said  aggres- 
sively, looking  at  his  wife.  He  had  not  heard  what  she 
said;  he  did  not  want  to  hear  it.  One  word  from  Cassie, 
if  listened  to,  might  break  down  the  whole  wall  of  his  re- 
solve and  determination.  In  fact,  Mr.  Brogan  was  almost 
on  the  point  of  collapse.  "Make  iv  that  whatever  ye  like !" 
he  cried.  "And  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  ye  think  iv  it." 

He  shut  his  razor,  went  with  a  steady  step  to  the  table, 
turned  down  the  wick  and  blew  out  the  light.  Then  he 
undressed  and  went  into  the  bed  beside  Cassie  Shemus 
Meehal. 


FAIRIES 

lleenahalla  "bedding  and  grass, 
Butter  and  milk  in  Inishmool, 
And  big  the  pastures  in  Ardnaglass 
That  hasn't  its  equal  in  sheep  and  wool — i 
There  are  seven  corners  in  Donegal, 
And  acres  many,  meadow  and  moor; 
Rich  in  money,  but  that  and  all, 
The  folk  of  the  Rosses  are  very  poor. 

The  guinea  coin  is  the  butt  of  care 

And  hearts  are  heavy  for  hands  that  hold, 

But  the  Rosses  people,  and  they  be  bare, 

Have  neither  their  hearts  in  gear  nor  gold — 

And  it's  all  of  them  always  for  song  and  fun, 

First  to  frolic  at  dance  and  spree 

With  nimble  toes  when  the  day  is  done, 

In  Carrandooragh  and  Meenaree. 

And  they  take  the  gifts  from  the  mill  and  churn 
And  the  mallard  wor  on  the  Rosses  bog 
To  the  gentle  oak  by  the  Dooran  burn 
For  the  little  people  from  Tir  nan  Og, 
Who  come  with  the  dusk  their  gifts  to  find 
In  the  sacred  ring  by  the  haunted  oak, 
And  they  weave  a  spell  over  souls  so  kind, 
Bo  the  Rosses  people  are  happy  folk. 


155 


CHAPTER  V 
MRS.  THORNTON 


IT  was  the  early  morning  and  raining  heavily.  The 
greening  sycamore  and  ash  dripped  sullenly,  spatter- 
ing the  camber  of  the  roadway  with  their  heavy  tears. 
The  drains  on  either  side  of  the  highway  were  riding  their 
boundaries  and  spilling  their  overflow  on  the  holms,  where 
the  lush  grass  thickened  in  its  far-flung  carpet  of  nascent 
green.  In  the  wet  and  early  morning  of  May  the  coun- 
try presented  a  cheerless  face  to  the  leaden  sky.  All 
things  seemed  to  droop  despondently,  the  drooping  clouds, 
the  drooping  hedgerows  and  drooping  grasses.  The  few 
pedestrians  on  the  roadway  seemed  to  take  tone  from  the 
general  character  of  the  day.  They  bent  their  heads  and 
drooped  as  if  following  the  funeral  of  a  friend. 

Along  this  road,  with  Strabane  in  front  showing  through 
the  rain  in  outline  vague,  in  aspect  forbidding,  came  Mau- 
reen O'Malley,  a  lone  and  solitary  figure,  plaintive  and 
penniless.  In  the  far  distance  the  hills  of  her  native 
Donegal  rose  to  the  sky,  dismal  and  gloomy.  Foot-weary 
and  spiritless  she  trudged  on  her  way  barefooted,  her  boots 
hanging  over  her  shoulder,  a  little  checked  bundle  under 
her  arm. 

Round  her  head,  hiding  her  ears  and  covering  her  hair 
so  completely  that  not  one  lock  showed,  was  a  red  ker- 
chief, wringing  wet.  The  girl 's  features  were  pinched  and 
drawn,  the  cheeks  hollow,  and  the  eyes,  joyless  and  tired, 
sunk  deep  in  their  pockets  as  if,  becoming  weary  of  the 
drear  perspective,  they  had  withdrawn  to  die.  Over  her 
shoulders  under  the  boots  hung  her  gray  shawl.  From  its 

157 


158  MAUREEN 

drooping  tassels  seeped  the  rain  to  the  petticoat  and  from 
the  petticoat  it  fell  on  her  legs  and  streaked  its  way  to 
the  road. 

Since  the  night  before  last  when  she  left  home,  she  had 
traveled  some  fifty  miles.  When  Eileen  Conroy  left  her, 
Maureen  packed  her  little  personal  belongings  in  a  bundle, 
turned  down  the  light  as  if  she  were  going  to  bed  and  took 
the  road  that  led  beyond  the  mountains.  The  night  was 
very  clear  and  the  highway  deserted  so  that  she  met  no- 
body on  the  earlier  part  of  her  journey.  A  league  from 
Meenaroodagh  she  sat  down  by  the  roadside,  took  off  her 
boots,  which  pinched  her  feet,  and  strapped  them  over  her 
shoulder.  Ever  since  then  she  had  walked  barefooted. 

Shortly  after  daybreak  with  the  marches  of  Dungarrow 
long  past  and  the  hill  of  Crinnan  well  to  the  rear,  the 
girl  encountered  a  woman  driving  two  milch  cows  to  their 
pasturage.  The  woman  was  very  old,  her  hair  snowy  white 
and  her  face  lined  with  wrinkles.  Like  Maureen  she  was 
barefooted. 

''The  blessing  of  God  be  on  you,  decent  girl,"  she  said 
in  Irish,  and  stopping,  fixed  a  pair  of  kindly  eyes  on  Mau- 
reen. "And  where  are  you  off  to  so  early  in  the  day?" 

"To  the  fair  of  Strabane,"  said  Maureen. 

"And  going  all  the  way  on  your  feet?"  inquired  the 
woman. 

"All  the  way,"  Maureen  replied. 

"It's  a  long  journey  in  front  of  you,"  said  the  woman 
with  the  cows.  "And  where  are  you  from?" 

' '  Dungarrow. ' ' 

"A  kindly  arm  of  the  world,"  said  the  woman.  "And 
what  do  they  call  you?" 

"Maureen  O'Malley." 

"A  good  name  that.  And  is  your  father  and  mother 
living?" 

In  this  manner  the  conversation  proceeded  for  a  full 
ten  minutes,  Maureen  answering  questions,  the  old  woman 
giving  an  opinion  on  the  substance  and  essence  of  the 
girl's  reply  as  a  preliminary  to  a  further  interrogation. 


MRS.  THORNTON  159 

"Well,  I  must  get  on  my  way,"  said  Maureen  when  the 
inquisition  became  tedious. 

"Have  you  had  your  breakfast  then?"  asked  the  old 
woman. 

"No,  indeed,"  was  Maureen's  answer. 

"And  you  have  no  money?" 

"None." 

"Listen  then,"  said  the  woman  with  the  readiness  of 
one  who  seemed  to  have  spent  all  her  life  in  doing  acts  of 
kindness  to  Donegal  girls  on  the  way  to  the  hiring-fair  of 
Strabane.  "  I  '11  leave  the  cows  here.  The  two  are  as  quiet 
as  lambs,  and  one  of  them,  the  brindled  one,  had  twins  at 
the  last  calving.  And  such  fine  calves,  but  one  of  them 
died  because  he  had  the  evil  eye  put  on  him  and  it  was 
only  two  days  old  at  the  time.  I  tried  to  put  it  away  with 
Doon  Well  water,  but  the  spell  was  too  strong  on  the  poor 
little  dear  when  we  noticed  it,  and  it  was  too  late.  But 
the  cows  are  quiet,  Maureen  O'Malley,  with  no  roving  in 
their  legs,  so  I  '11  leave  them  here  to  graze  by  the  road,  and 
I  '11  come  back  with  you  and  give  you  a  good  bowl  of  tea. ' ' 

Holding  Maureen  by  the  hand,  the  old  woman  turned 
and  accompanied  the  girl  along  the  road  till  they  reached 
a  snug  thatched  cottage  that  stood  by  the  roadside  under 
a  sycamore  tree.  Through  the  open  door  a  fire  could 
be  seen  blazing  on  the  hearth.  The  two  women 
entered. 

"Sit  down  on  the  chair  and  warm  your  wee  feet,"  said 
the  hostess.  "And  I'll  get  the  kettle  ready." 

Breakfast  was  prepared,  bread  and  fresh  butter  spread 
thickly,  and  two  eggs.  Maureen  drew  her  chair  in  to  the 
table  and  found  to  her  surprise  that  she  was  very  hungry. 

"A  thousand  thanks  to  you,"  she  said,  getting  up  when 
she  had  finished  and  addressing  the  old  woman,  whose 
eyes  appeared  to  have  grown  brighter  at  every  mouthful 
that  Maureen  had  eaten.  This  hospitality,  while  being 
sustenance  to  the  chance  guest,  seemed  to  bring  renewed 
vitality  to  the  eyes  of  the  old  woman. 

"But  you  have  eaten  nothing,"  said  the  woman  with  a 


160  MAUREEN 

gesture  of  disapproval.  "Two  eggs  only,  and  there  are 
two  more  in  the  pandy  on  the  fire  boiling  for  you. ' ' 

"It's  the  first  time  I  ever  ate  two  eggs  together,"  said 
Maureen.  "Thanks  again  very  much." 

"Arrah,  don't  thank  me,"  said  the  woman.  "Thank 
God,  decent  girl,  that  has  given  me  the  power  to  give  you 
a  bit  of  a  meal — and  it  was  a  bit,  Maureen.  A  sparrow 
would  have  eaten  more  for  its  collation. ' ' 

Maureen  raised  the  bundle  from  the  floor  and  put  it 
under  her  arm  prior  to  taking  her  departure. 

"It's  a  long  journey,"  said  the  old  woman  with  a  sigh, 
taking  down  a  scapular  which  hung  from  a  nail  over  the 
fireplace.  ' '  But  if  it  has  to  be  done  it  has  to  be  done,  and 
God  be  with  you  all  the  way.  And  here,  take  this  scapular 
with  you  and  it  will  be  luck  to  you.  The  girl  that  wore 
this  had  the  same  cut  as  yourself  and  the  same  laughing 
eyes.  Your  eyes  look  tired  now,  Maureen  O'Malley,  with 
the  thought  of  the  journey  in  your  head,  but  I  know  that 
at  the  heel  of  a  day  at  home  when  you  sit  down  at  a  dance 
you  can  laugh  with  the  best  of  them  and  make  a  joke  with 
a  ready  tongue.  My  girl,  God  rest  her !  was  like  that. ' ' 

' '  Is  she  dead  ? ' '  asked  Maureen  in  a  tone  of  pity. 

' '  Two  years  gone,  last  Christmas, ' '  said  the  woman,  tears 
showing  in  her  eyes.  "A  cold  in  the  chest  and  a  cough, 
and  she  went  from  me  like  a  spark  that  goes  up  in  the 
air.  And  this  is  hers,  but  now  you  take  it  and  put  it 
round  your  neck  and  you  are  sure  to  have  the  prayer  of 
an  angel  on  you  all  the  years  of  your  life." 

She  handed  Maureen  the  scapular.  The  girl  kissed  it, 
put  it  round  her  neck,  while  tears  welled  from  her  tired 
eyes. 

"And  take  this  with  you,  too,"  said  the  woman,  handing 
Maureen  a  red  handkerchief  in  which  were  stored  the  two 
boiled  eggs  and  several  slices  of  bread  and  butter.  "Just 
sit  down  be  the  road  when  the  hunger  comes  on  you  and 
say  a  prayer  for  yourself  and  for  all  that's  in  misery  and 
make  a  meal.  And  God  and  Mary  watch  over  you  and  keep 
you  safe  all  the  days  of  your  life.  Beannacht  leat,  Mau- 
reen. Beannacht  leat!" 


MRS.  THORNTON  161 

All  day  long  Maureen  traveled,  but  now  and  again  paus- 
ing for  a  moment  to  take  a  nibble  from  the  store  in  the 
handkerchief.  A  certain  moral  fortitude  filled  her  being 
since  she  met  the  old  woman,  and  this,  brightening  her 
mental  outlook,  went  a  long  way  towards  easing  the 
physical  strain  of  the  journey.  In  addition  to  this  happy 
incident,  the  day  was  bright  and  warm,  the  air  filled  with 
the  scent  of  early  flowers.  Walking  barefooted  was  con- 
ducive to  a  certain  dreamy  languor  in  no  way  impaired 
by  the  effort  of  walking. 

Removed  in  space  from  the  scenes  of  her  unhappy  child- 
hood and  in  time  from  the  calamity  which  had  so  recently 
overtaken  her,  the  joy  of  the  first  went  some  way  towards 
the  abrogation  of  the  second,  and  Maureen  was  in  a  meas- 
ure happy.  The  kindly  act  which  blest  the  morning  helped 
in  a  way  to  dissipate  the  vague  fear  of  the  preceding  night. 
The  uneasy  feeling  with  which  she  contemplated  the  jour- 
ney threading  the  somber  web  of  a  more  defined  grief  left 
no  room  for  the  slightest  thread  of  hope  to  inweave  itself 
into  the  fabric. 

But  the  most  checkered  weather  has  its  gleams  and  tinges 
of  brightness  and  the  dreariest  life  its  moments  of  happi- 
ness. Though  nipped  sorely  by  the  pincers  of  adverse  for-  ^ 
tune  and  circumstance,  youth,  strong-blooded  and  vital, 
is  quick  to  renew  itself.  So  with  Maureen  O'Malley.  On 
the  dry  road,  now  bathed  with  the  sun  and  heartened  by 
singing  birds  from  broom  and  bramble,  she  felt  in  high 
spirits,  which,  when  she  paused  a  moment  to  analyze  them, 
seemed  to  her  as  something  very  wrong  and  mean. 

"And  my  mother,  God  rest  her,  dead,"  she  whispered 
accusingly  as  if  to  damp  her  mood.  But  even  this  whis- 
pered reproof  served  no  purpose.  A  moment  following 
utterance,  thoughts  of  her  mother  left  her  mind,  and  she 
found  herself  thinking  of  Cathal  Cassidy,  his  declaration 
of  love. 

But  always  on  the  fringe  of  this  remembrance  the  form 
of  her  mother,  white  and  ghostly,  showed  itself  holding  a 
finger  in  air,  as  if  to  remind  Maureen  that  she  was  doing 
something  wrong  in  thinking  of  the  man  that  loved  her. 


162  MAUREEN 

Maureen  recalled  her  mother's  injunction  given  many  a 
time  as  the  two  sat  by  the  home  fire,  Kathleen  knitting  a 
stocking  while  the  daughter  read  a  book,  or  built  castles 
of  wonder  with  turf  for  walls,  a  dishcloth  for  roof  and  a 
streak  of  red  ashes  for  the  road  which  a  fairy  prince  would 
take  when  coming  to  free  the  imprisoned  princess  from 
the  toils  of  the  giant  who  had  imprisoned  her  in  a  dark 
dungeon. 

"When  you  grow  up  and  be  a  woman  and  a  man  maybe 
comes  and  asks  you  to  be  married  on  him,"  the  mother 
would  say,  "see  that  he's  not  a  man  of  this  parish  or  the 
parish  next  it  on  either  side.  You  must  be  married  on  a 
man  out  of  the  parish  if  ever  you  marry  at  all.  That's 
if  you  want  to  be  happy  and  if  you  want  the  man  to  be 
happy  as  well.  Mind  that,  Maureen,  my  wee  dear,"  she 
would  say,  catching  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  kissing  her. 
"It's  for  your  own  good,  mind,  for  your  own  good,  my 
wee  flower  of  the  world." 

But  Maureen' did  not  understand  the  mother's  meaning 
then,  did  not  understand  it  even  when  her  prince  took 
on  the  form  and  appointments  of  Cathal  Cassidy,  when 
the  prancing  steed  became  a  cart  horse  and  the  glittering 
spear  became  the  ash-hafted  whip  which  Cathal  used  in 
driving.  The  prince  who  rescued  her  from  a  castle  of 
dreams  at  ten  and  carried  her  away  to  the  land  of  Tir 
Nan  Og  on  his  spirited  steed,  was  the  same  prince  who  met 
her  going  to  Mass  on  Sunday  when  she  was  seventeen  and 
carried  her  away  to  another  land  where  youth  is  eternal 
and  where  Love  holds  sway  over  the  hearts  of  the  young. 

Into  this  mysterious  realm  with  love  as  yet  unspoken 
but  felt,  where  thoughts  communicated,  where  silence  had 
tangible  properties,  and  where  an  ordinary  greeting 
breathed  the  romance  of  the  world,  the  girl  was  wafted. 
Then  came  a  day  when  her  prince  spoke  to  her,  saying, 
"You  are  mine  for  ever  and  always." 

This  happened  a  moment  ago  and  was  happening  now, 
for  Maureen  on  her  journey  to  Strabane  was  living  it  all 
over  again.  Exiled  from  her  Fairyland,  she  bore  its  aroma 
still  in  her  heart.  As  she  walked  she  could  feel  the  arms 


MRS.  THORNTON  163 

of  her  prince  circle  her  shoulder,  his  lips  rest  on  her  hair 
and  his  voice  whisper  of  love  in  her  ear.  Cathal  loved 
her  with  all  the  strength  of  his  heart ;  he  would  tumble  the 
world  down  for  her  sake;  he  was  her  Fairy  Prince  come 
to  real  life. 

But  as  she  thought  of  him  she  recalled  her  mother  alive, 
who  had  warned  her  against  him,  and  her  mother  dead, 
who  had  come,  even  as  he  told  his  love,  to  remind  her  of 
the  advice  so  often  given  when  Maureen  was  a  little  child 
when  impressions  dint  the  young,  malleable  mind  and  be- 
come part  of  it,  like  faith  that  always  remains  either  in 
acceptance  or  negation. 

Now,  however,  removed  from  temptation,  she  could  think 
of  Cathal,  for  in  that  there  was  nothing  wrong,  nothing 
at  variance  with  a  promise  once  given  to  her  mother.  She 
would  not  be  Cathal 's  wife,  she  had  renounced  him  on  prin- 
ciple, in  accordance  with  the  tenets  of  one  who  was  gone. 
But  the  moment  of  impassioned  love  came  back  upon  her 
with  all  its  cruel  charm,  and  Maureen  felt  that  she  had 
cast  away  something  dear  and  precious  from  her  life. 

"Was  it  right  or  was  it  wrong?  She  could  not  tell,  but 
as  she  puzzled  over  it  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  some- 
thing had  left  her  and  vanished  without  any  prospect  of 
returning.  A  strange  weakness  overtook  the  girl  as  she 
thought  of  this.  Her  legs  gave  way  under  her,  and  she 
sat  down  by  the  roadside  while  tears  of  anguish,  bitter  as 
gall,  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 

That  night  Maureen  stole  into  a  barn  by  the  roadside, 
lay  down  in  the  hay  and  fell  asleep.  In  the  morning  at 
four  when  she  awoke  it  was  raining,  a  heavy  rain  that 
made  every  wheel-wound  on  the  road  a  ditch,  every  holm 
a  lake,  and  every  brook  a  torrent.  The  girl  was  well  out 
of  the  mountainy  district  now,  into  the  flat  lands  where 
no  hill  rose  to  shelter  a  warm  glen  and  where  the  horizon 
stretched  away  into  drear  immeasurable  distances.  Here 
the  very  houses  had  a  more  austere  look  than  any  she  had 
ever  known  in  Dungarrow.  They  were  cold,  proud,  self- 
centered  and  forbidding.  The  whole  environment  was 
tinged  with  something  hard  and  austere,  such  as  might 


164  MAUREEN 

sadden  the  merriest  heart  and  intensify  the  gloom  of  a 
soul  already  steeped  in  anguish. 

Maureen  shuddered  whenever  she  looked  at  the  smug 
slated  houses  that  seemed  to  draw  themselves  up  with  a 
distant,  friendless  shrug  as  she  looked  at  them.  They  were 
decidedly  hostile  and  supercilious,  cold  as  if  no  cheerful 
fire  ever  burned  on  a  hearth  within,  forbidding  as  if  their 
doors  never  opened  in  welcome  to  a  soul,  pitiless  even  as 
if  their  people  never  were  guilty  of  charity  or  benevolence. 

n 

At  nine  o'clock,  with  Strabane  in  the  near  distance  and 
the  rain  pelting  pitilessly  on  her  sodden  garments,  Mau- 
reen sat  down  by  the  roadside  and  put  on  her  boots.  The 
road  was  now  thick  with  the  country  people  on  their  way 
to  the  fair.  All  were  converging  on  one  point,  the  gloomy 
town  of  Strabane,  farmers  in  their  dainty  gigs  coming  to 
hire  hands  for  the  ensuing  six  months,  boys  and  girls 
with  a  term  of  service  at  an  end  hastening  to  undertake 
another  six  months'  work  that  would  be  in  effect  similar, 
but  in  location  different.  It  was  the  twelfth  of  May  in 
Strabane,  the  day  on  which  gold  changed  hands  as  the  re- 
turn for  a  past  six  months'  stewardship  and  silver  given 
as  earnest  of  a  bargain  newly  made. 

Maureen,  having  laced  her  boots,  got  to  her  feet  and  was 
on  the  point  of  setting  off  when  some  one  shouted  behind 
her.  She  looked  back  to  see  a  jaunting  car  approaching, 
a  swarthy  man,  portly  of  paunch,  on  one  side  holding  the 
reins,  and  on  the  other  side  an  elderly  woman  gripping 
the  rail  of  the  dickey  with  the  object  of  steadying  herself 
on  the  seat  as  the  car  oscillated  on  the  rough,  uneven 
causeway.  It  was  the  man  who  shouted. 

"Hi!    Donegal!"  he  called. 

Maureen,  realizing  that  he  was  addressing  her,  stopped 
and  when  he  came  abreast  he  brought  his  horse  to  a  stand- 
still. 

"Goin*  to  the  fair?"  he  inquired  in  a  gruff  voice. 

"I'm  going  to  the  fair,"  said  Maureen. 


MRS.  THORNTON  165 

"Goin'  to  hire  yerself  out?"  he  asked. 

"That  I  am,"  said  Maureen. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  stroking  his  beard  and  spitting 
on  the  roadway.  "Yes,  yes.  And  what  money  are  you 
after?" 

Maureen,  who  dwelt  practically  alone  when  at  home  and 
who  knew  very  little  of  transactions  between  master  and 
servant,  was  at  a  loss  as  to  what  answer  she  should  give. 
She  once  heard  a  neighboring  girl  back  from  service  beyond 
the  mountains  tell  that  her  wages  for  six  months  were  six 
pounds  ten  shillings.  Probably  if  she  asked  for  the  same 
wage  it  would  be  given. 

"Six  pound  ten,"  she  replied,  looking  at  the  man. 

"For  a  year?"  he  asked  and  gave  vent  to  a  sarcastic 
whistle.  Then  he  looked  at  the  woman.  "Did  you  hear 
that  ? "  he  said.  ' '  Six  pound  ten ! " 

"I'm  not  deaf,"  said  the  woman  with  a  snort,  evi- 
dently intended  for  Maureen.  "Drive  on." 

The  man  gave  the  horse  a  flick  with  his  whip ;  the  animal 
trotted  off,  but  when  a  hundred  yards  separated  the  two 
from  the  girl  the  vehicle  stopped  again  and  waited  till 
Maureen  overtook  it. 

"Six  pounds  ten,  you're  wantin'?"  the  man  inquired, 
turning  round  on  his  seat  and  looking  at  Maureen.  Then 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  continued:  "It's  big 
money  for  a  girl  your  cut,  and  you'll  never  get  it,  either 
here  or  in  the  fair.  Where  are  you  from,  anyway?"  he 
asked,  as  if  knowledge  of  the  girl's  native  place  would  in 
some  manner  explain  why  she  dared  to  ask  eight  pence 
half  penny  a  day  as  wages. 

"Dungarrow,"  said  Maureen. 

"Saw  some  Dungarrow  cubs,"  said  the  man  with  a  sniff. 
' '  Fill  their  pockets  with  money  and  their  bellies  with  spuds 
and  they're  the  best  cubs  in  the  world.  But  put  them  in 
front  of  a  day's  work  and  they  love  it  so  much  that  they'll 
lie  beside  it  and  look  at  it.  I  suppose  the  girls  are  not 
a  bit  better.  "What  can  you  do?" 

' '  Can  you  nurse  weans  ? ' '  asked  the  woman,  before  Mau- 
reen had  time  to  reply  to  the  man's  question. 


166  MAUREEN 

"I  never  had  to  do  that,"  said  the  girl.  "But  I'll  try 
and  do  my  best." 

"Do  you  know  what  weans  are  fed  on?"  asked  the 
woman. 

"Milk  if  they're  very  wee,"  said  the  girl.  "And  when 
they  get  bigger — " 

"That's  enough  to  know  about  them,"  said  the  woman. 
"If  I  take  you  on  I'll  learn  you  the  rest,  that's  if  you're 
willin'  to  learn.  I  love  weans  and  I  give  them  no  end 
iv  care.  But  I've  my  own  opinions  iv  the  way  to  bring 
them  up.  A  wean  must  be  treated  kindly,  but  not  too 
kindly.  If  they're  made  to  live  too  soft  on  it  at  the  start 
they're  never  any  good  when  they  grow  up.  Now  isn't 
that  your  own  opinion,  Donegal?" 

"It  is,"  said  Maureen  in  a  puzzled  voice.  Though  not 
knowing  what  interpretation  to  place  on  the  woman's  theo- 
ries of  child-rearing,  she  wanted  to  make  herself  agree- 
able. 

"Any  people  sib  to  you  comin '  to  the  fair  the  day?" 
asked  the  man,  leaning  across  the  dickey. 

"I  haven't  any  one  sib  to  me,"  said  the  girl. 

"Not  a  brother  or  sister?" 

"I  haven't  any." 

"And  your  father  and  mother?"  inquired  the  man,  fix- 
ing a  knowing  look  on  his  woman  friend. 

"They're  dead,"  said  Maureen,  tears  coming  to  her 
eyes. 

"You're  all  on  your  own,  then?"  asked  the  woman. 

"Yes,  I'm  all  on  my  lone,"  Maureen  replied. 

"And  does  any  one  know  that  you're  here?"  asked  the 
woman,  exchanging  glances  with  the  swarthy  man. 

"No  one  as  far  as  I  can  tell,"  Maureen  said.  "I  stole 
away." 

"Not  from  the  place  that  you  were  hired  in?"  asked  the 
man  in  a  voice  tinged  with  suspicion.  "You  didn't  run 
away  from  your  place  as  lots  of  the  Dungarrow  cubs  do 
with  money  that's  not  their  own  in  their  pocket?" 

"I'm  not  a  thief,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  said  Mau- 


MRS.  THORNTON  167 

reen,  straightening  her  shoulders  and  taking  a  step  for- 
ward as  if  to  continue  her  journey. 

"He  doesn't  mean  that,"  said  the  woman  in  conciliatory 
voice.  "It's  only  his  fun.  But  at  bottom  he's  a  right 
good  fellow." 

"  'Twas  only  my  fun,"  the  man  hastened  to  confirm. 
"I  don't  mean  what  I  say  most  of  the  time.  And  your 
money,"  he  added.  "What  was  it,  now?" 

"Six  pounds  ten,"  said  the  girl. 

"Six  pounds  ten,"  said  the  woman  deprecatingly.  "A 
big  lot  that." 

"You'll  not  be  able  to  get  five  pounds  at  the  fair  if 
you're  there,"  said  the  man.  "Now  what  do  you  say  to," 
— he  cleared  his  throat — "to  five  pounds?"  He  stretched 
the  last  two  words  as  if  endeavoring  to  make  the  girl  real- 
ize what  five  whole  pounds  really  meant. 

"I'm  goin'  to  the  fair  afore  I'd  hire  with  any  man  for 
five  pounds,"  said  Maureen  in  an  emphatic  voice. 

"Well,  five  pound  five,"  said  the  woman,  implying  by 
her  tones  that  she  would  pay  that  wage  at  a  pinch,  but 
never  go  a  penny  beyond  it. 

' '  Five  pound  five, ' '  said  the  driver  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  had  really  nothing  to  do  with  the  business  but  was 
surprised  at  the  generosity  of  the  woman. 

"And  you  will  have  the  will  of  the  table  that  I  sit  at 
meself,"  said  the  woman. 

"Just  think  of  that,"  said  the  man,  his  astonishment 
at  such  munificence  increasing  the  rotundity  of  his  per- 
son. 

"And  every  Sunday  your  own  to  go  to  your  duties," 
said  the  woman. 

"Every  Sunday,"  repeated  the  driver,  emphasizing  the 
adjective. 

"Now  what  do  you  say  to  that?"  queried  the  woman, 
having  completed  the  tally  of  privileges.  "Isn't  it  worth 
your  while  to  come  to  a  place  like  this  where  you  have 
everything  your  own  way,  light  work  and  a  good  table?" 

"Not  at  that  money,"  said  the  girl  in  a  tone  of  quiet 


168  MAUREEN 

assurance.  "If  I  go  to  the  fair  I'll  be  able  to  get  a  far 
and  away  bigger  money." 

"Five  ten,  then,"  said  the  man  with  a  sigh. 

"No,  thank  ye,"  said  Maureen,  taking  a  few  steps  in 
the  direction  of  the  town. 

"Five  fifteen,  then,"  the  woman  shouted  after  the  girl. 
"Drive  on  the  horse,  Bob!  Six  pound  ten!" 

"I  don't  know  how  you  can  come  to  give  the  girl  that," 
said  the  man  to  the  woman,  when  the  gig  came  abreast 
Maureen.  "It's  throwing  good  money  away  and  it's  so 
hard  to  scrape  it  together." 

"I'm  always  like  that,"  said  the  woman,  accepting  the 
impeachment  and  sighing  because  it  was  justified.  "I 
always  give  my  servants  the  best  money,  and  sometimes 
they're  worth  it,  but  more  often  not." 

"Not  a  lie  in  what  you  say,  Martha,"  remarked  the  man 
in  a  tone  of  whole-hearted  approval,  and  fixing  his  eyes 
on  Maureen.  "Six  pound  you're  offered,"  he  said.  "Six 
pound!  A  big  penny  for  a  girl  that  has  never  been  here 
before.  Six  pound.  Now  what  do  you  say  to  it?  You're 
poor  on  it  I  '11  warrant,  and  a  pound  or  two  won 't  do  you 
any  hurt  come  Hallowe'en." 

Maureen  looked  at  the  woman,  then  at  the  man. 

"It  won't  do  me  any  hurt,"  she  said  stiffly  to  the  latter. 
"It'll  maybe  hurt  you  more  to  pay  it!" 

"Ah!  that's  spirit,  Bob,"  said  the  woman  with  a  mali- 
cious chuckle  as  if  the  remark  addressed  to  her  friend  Bob 
afforded  her  cruel  enjoyment.  "That's  spirit.  I  like  a 
girl  iv  your  cut,"  addressing  Maureen.  "Now  what'a  to 
be  done  in  it?  Will  we  split  the  difference?  Say  the 
word  and  we'll  split  it.  Six  five!" 

"Six  five,"  echoed  the  man. 

"All  right,"  said  Maureen  quietly. 

"Then  it's  no  good  in  you  comin'  in  to  the  fair,"  said 
the  woman.  "Get  up  on  the  car  and  we'll  drive  you  along 
to  a  house  back  here  on  the  road  and  you  can  have  a  sleep 
maybe.  You're  tired,  aren't  you?" 

" Tired 's  not  the  word!"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  give  me  your  hand  and  up  you  get,"  said  the 


MRS.  THORNTON  169 

woman,  catching  Maureen  by  the  hand  and  helping  her 
onto  the  seat. 

The  driver  reined  the  horse  round,  and  when  they  had 
traveled  back  about  half  a  mile  they  turned  up  a  side  road 
where  after  a  ten  minutes'  brisk  drive  they  came  to  the 
door  of  a  little  one-storied  house.  The  driver  knocked 
on  the  door  with  the  butt  of  his  whip,  and  a  sallow-faced 
woman  opened  it. 

"Good  mornin'  to  ye,  Mrs.  Thornton,"  she  said  in  a 
weak,  lifeless  voice,  gazing  at  the  woman  on  the  car.  ' '  What 
can  I  do  for  ye?" 

"I'vte  hired  this  Donegal,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "She 
has  traveled  all  the  way  from  her  home,  and  she's  tired. 
Let  her  stay  here  till  I  come  back  from  the  fair.  Then 
I'll  take  her  home  with  me.  And  don't  blab  to  her  either, 
Mary.  Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head." 

"I  never  am  one  to  speak  when  the  business  is  none  iv 
mine,"  said  the  woman  in  a  cowed  voice. 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "I'll  be  back  as  soon 
as  I  can.  Drive  on,  Bob." 

m 

The  room  was  small,  cold  and  evil-smelling,  a  mere  box 
in  which  Maureen  could  not  stand  upright.  Her  bed  lay 
on  the  floor,  a  shakedown  of  last  year's  straw,  moldy  and 
malodorous,  in  fact  looking  as  if  it  were  dung-soaked 
mulch  gathered  from  a  farmyard  in  the  rain  and  never 
allowed  to  dry.  On  this  lay  two  petticoats,  which  a  ragged 
scarecrow  might  have  shed  in  disgust,  and  a  wet  bundle 
wrapped  in  a  check  kerchief.  One  petticoat  served  the 
purpose  of  sheet,  the  other  a  blanket,  and  the  bundle 
wrapped  in  the  check  kerchief  was  the  pillow  on  which 
Maureen  O'Malley  would  rest  her  head  in  sleep.  It  was 
now  near  midnight,  the  sky  clear  and  starry,  such  of  it  as 
could  be  seen  through  the  two-paned  window  near  the  roof, 
and  the  moon  rising. 

The  room  was  chill  and  silent,  chill  because  the  wind 
blew  up  through  the  cracks  in  the  floor  and  silent  because 


170  MAUREEN 

everybody  was  apparently  asleep.  A  sort  of  deathly  gloom 
seemed  to  possess  the  house,  as  if  fell  spirits  kept  their 
vigils  there.  Something  uncanny  pervaded  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place,  something  that  assumed  an  almost  palpable 
form  over  Maureen's  head  when  she  sat  in  the  kitchen  to 
eat  the  cold  meal  that  Mrs.  Thornton  provided  and  after- 
wards followed  the  girl  up  the  ladder  leading  to  her  bed- 
room. Now  this  Presence,  this  form  without  substance  or 
outline,  felt  but  unseen,  settled  down  in  the  corners  to 
keep  watch  over  Maureen  all  the  night. 

The  girl  sat  on  her  blanket,  a  prey  to  thoughts  the  most 
gloomy  and  conflicting.  "What  was  the  place  in  which  she 
found  herself?  She  tried  to  recall  her  coming,  but  weari- 
ness seemed  to  blot  out  all  coherence  in  thought.  She  recol- 
lected certain  things  with  precision,  but  things  as  near  and 
as  vivid  ran  hurriedly  across  the  tablet  of  her  mind  as  if 
afraid  of  being  memorized. 

She  recalled  the  girl,  Mary,  in  the  cottage,  a  poor,  half- 
witted creature,  who  would  not  speak  of  her  own  accord 
and  answered  Maureen's  questions  with  nods  and  mono- 
syllables.. All  day  long  Maureen  remained  there,  nodding 
drowsily  at  times  and  at  intervals  falling  into  short,  trou- 
bled spasms  of  slumber. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  the  car  containing  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton and  her  friend  Bob  drew  up  at  the  door,  called  for 
Maureen,  and  when  she  came  out  she  was  helped  up  on 
the  seat  beside  the  man.  On  the  way  to  her  place,  over  a 
rocky  road,  the  man  put  his  arm  round  the  girl  several 
times,  with  the  object,  as  he  declared,  of  keeping  her  snug 
in  her  seat.  But  on  each  occasion  the  girl  thrust  the  hand 
aside  and  eased  as  far  from  the  driver  as  possible.  Finally, 
after  a  run  of  three  hours,  the  car  stopped  and  the  two 
women  descended  from  their  seats. 

"We've  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton. "Across  the  fields." 

The  car  drove  away  and  the  women  crossed  a  wide  field, 
then  along  a  lane,  then  over  further  fields,  sloughy  and 
miry  with  the  water  rising  ankle  high.  Ten  minutes 
brought  them  to  a  house  that  stood  high  and  sullen,  with 


MRS.  THORNTON  171 

no  light  showing  through  door  or  window.  To  Maureen  it 
looked  like  a  prison. 

Mrs.  Thornton  took  a  key  from  her  pocket,  opened  the 
door  and  entered,  Maureen  following.  The  girl's  nostrils, 
rendered  susceptible  by  the  long  journey  in  the  fresh  air, 
were  immediately  assailed  by  a  strong,  disagreeable  odor 
as  if  something  was  putrefying  in  the  house.  The  moon 
had  not  yet  risen,  and  the  interior  of  the  dwelling  was  a 
block  of  dense  blackness  almost  palpable. 

"Stand  there,  Donegal,  till  I  get  a  light,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton,  leaving  Maureen  on  the  threshold  and  disappear- 
ing into  the  gloom.  Maureen  could  hear  the  woman  scrape 
a  board,  probably  the  table,  with  her  fingers  as  if  groping 
for  something.  At  the  same  moment  a  low  whimper,  like 
the  wail  of  a  lost  puppy,  was  heard  near  Maureen,  coming 
from  the  ground,  as  far  as  she  could  ascertain.  It  died 
away  but  was  replaced  by  a  second  whimper,  closer  still, 
as  if  the  thing  were  creeping  nearer.  Maureen  edged  back 
to  the  door  shivering  with  terror.  It  was  a  rat !  She  had 
heard  rats  squeal  when  at  home  and  the  sound  from  the 
gloom  reminded  her  of  them. 

A  third  whimper,  nearer  this  time,  reached  Maureen 's 
ears.  Whatever  made  the  sound  was  coming  closer.  The 
woman  was  still  groping  on  the  table. 

"What's  makin'  that  sound  at  all?"  stammered  Mau- 
reen. 

The  woman  returned  no  answer,  but  as  if  to  make  up  for 
that  the  crying  was  repeated  near  at  hand,  then  further 
back,  first  in  one  corner  then  in  another.  The  gloom  was 
filled  with  these  strange,  uncanny  noises  that  sounded  now 
like  the  shrill  plaint  of  trodden  mice.  They  came  from  all 
corners,  filling  the  dense  obscurity  as  if  it  had  a  thousand 
tongues. 

"Where  did  that  strap  leave  the  matches?"  the  woman 
suddenly  cried  in  a  querulous  voice.  "Nothin'  is  right 
when  I  leave  the  house  for  a  minute." 

Maureen's  eyes  could  now  make  out  the  form  of  the 
woman  in  the  darkness,  black  and  shadowy  as  if  the  gloom 
had  accumulated  into  a  darker  heap  in  one  part  of  the 


172  MAUREEN 

room.  She  was  now  near  the  window,  which  was  slowly 
taking  on  a  lighter  shade  and  losing  the  gloom  which  was 
its  a  moment  before.  The  moon  was  rising. 

There  was  a  sudden  creak  under  Mrs.  Thornton's  feet 
and  she  bent  to  the  ground. 

"Hung  it  up  on  the  floor  as  I  thought,"  she  said.  "The 
trollop!" 

Straightening  herself  she  struck  a  match  and  lit  an  oil 
lamp  which  was  nailed  to  the  mantelpiece  over  the  fire- 
less  hearth.  Maureen  looked  round  her  and  saw  the  room. 

It  was  a  square  compartment,  the  walls  unpapered  and 
black  as  if  covered  with  soot,  the  floor  earthen  and  pitted 
with  holes,  the  roof  finger-deep  in  dust  from  which  hung 
venerable  cobwebs.  On  the  ashes  of  the  dead  fire  sat  a 
skillet,  lid  off  and  empty.  A  chair  stood  under  the  win- 
dow, and  on  this  was  piled  a  heap  of  children's  clothing. 
Maureen  noticed  these  things  cursorily,  for  in  them  there 
was  nothing  extraordinary.  She  had  seen  houses  cleaner 
and  again  houses  dirtier.  She  was  a  servant  girl  any- 
way, and  if  her  mistress  lived  here  surely  she  could. 

But  what  excited  her  attention  and  wonder  was  the 
small  oblong  box  placed  in  the  angle  of  the  wall  facing 
her.  In  this  something  was  moving  restlessly  and  crying. 
The  cry  was  the  same  as  reached  her  ears  when  she  stood 
at  the  door  in  the  darkness,  the  same  low,  weak  whimper 
that  reminded  her  of  a  trampled  mouse.  As  a  blanket  cov- 
ered the  box  nothing  living  was  visible.  Possibly  the 
thing,  whatever  it  was,  had  crawled  on  the  floor  in  the 
gloom,  and  now  when  the  lamp  was  lit  scurried  into  the 
box  again.  It  was  certainly  nearer  her  feet  a  moment  ago. 

As  she  thought  of  this  she  looked  in  the  corner  near 
the  door,  to  see  a  second  box,  covered  over  with  a  print 
cloth.  But  there  was  nothing  alive  in  that  box,  or  at 
least  if  there  was  it  neither  moved  nor  cried.  Something 
wailed  on  her  left,  a  cry  similar  to  that  which  she  had 
already  heard.  Maureen  turned  round.  At  her  back  near 
the  wall  was  a  third  box  the  same  as  the  others,  and  out 
of  this,  from  a  huddle  of  rags,  a  white  face  was  peering, 
the  puny  face  of  a  child. 


MES.  HiDB0T  173 


"Well,  Doneg-  ered,  place  V  '  ^an,  sitting  down  on  a 
chair  by  the  fir  face  in,/  o  at  Maureen.  "Do  you  like 
the  place?"  .?*•?!< 

"I  like  it,'  oc^a  Maureen,  but  there  was  uncertainty 
in  her  tones. 

"I  was  just  thinkin  '  that  you  did  by  the  way  you  keep 
lookin'  at  everything  in  the  house.  You  don't  see  any- 
thing wrong  with  it,  Donegal,  do  you  now?" 

"No,"  said  Maureen. 

"No,  ma'am,  when  you  speak  to  me,  Donegal,"  said  the 
woman  sharply.  "I'm  your  mistress  now.  Amn't  I?" 

"You  are,  ma'am!" 

"I  know  the  Donegals,"  said  the  woman  with  a  wry 
curl  of  her  upper  lip.  "They're  all  double-faced,  but 
when  they've  to  deal  with  me  they  find  that  it  doesn't 
pay  to  get  up  till  any  tricks.  Can  you  wash?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  a  short  job  till  it's  time  till  go  till  bed,"  said 
Mrs.  Thornton,  eyeing  Maureen  with  a  critical  eye. 
"There's  two  blankets  on  the  back  of  that  chair.  There's 
a  bucket  of  water  down  there  at  the  back  of  you.  Steep 
the  blankets  in  it,  wring  them  and  put  them  over  the  back 
of  the  chair  again.  Then  I'll  show  you  where  you're  to 
sleep  the  night." 

Maureen  rinsed  the  blankets,  wrung  them  and  placed 
them  on  the  chair  as  directed.  All  the  time  she  worked 
the  children  kept  crying  from  their  various  boxes.  There 
were  four  children  in  the  room,  three  in  boxes,  one  in  a 
cradle  under  the  window.  These  four  cried  in  turn  at 
times,  one  beginning  when  the  other  left  off,  again  in  con- 
cord, all  the  little  voices  vying  with  one  another  as  if  in 
contest.  Maureen  could  see  only  one  face.  This  face,  old 
as  time,  gazed  at  her  with  large,  curious  eyes  as  if  it 
wanted  to  question  the  girl  about  something.  There  was 
something  pitiable  in  the  creature,  in  the  contour  of  the 
face,  which  sank  inwards,  the  drooping  mouth  and  the  ex- 
pression of  the  eyes.  In  fact  the  child  seemed  to  desire 
something,  and  that  something,  in  Maureen's  estimate, 
was  food. 


174  .MAUREEN 

That  four  children  of  the"l;e  window,  should  be  in  one 
house,  where  the  only  other  occu^SJng  the~t  from  Maureen, 
was  Mrs.  Thornton,  did  not  strike  t&e~  Donegal  girl  as 
being  in  any  way  peculiar.  But  this  outlook  of  the  girl 
had  education  and  circumstance  to  vindicate  it.  She  had 
never  been  away  from  home  before,  had  never  traveled  on 
a  railway  train,  had  a  mind  as  yet  undeveloped  and  with- 
out sense  of  the  value  or  fitness  of  things  outside  the  par- 
ish in  which  she  was  born.  So  many  impressions  novel 
and  strange  had  been  hers  for  the  last  forty-eight  hours 
that  now,  her  perceptions  blunted  with  sorrow  and  mind 
befogged  with  weariness,  she  was  unable  to  analyze  her  own 
sensations. 

"It's  time  for  you  to  get  till  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton when  Maureen  had  completed  her  work.  "Some  peo- 
ple can  go  to  bed  when  they  want  to,  but  not  me.  I  have 
to  see  after  these  children,  light  the  fire  to  dry  their 
clothes  and  blankets.  It's  a  hard  life,  Donegal!" 

"And  can  I  not  help  ye  to  do  a  bit  iv  yer  work?"  asked 
Maureen.  "I'm  not  sleepy,  ma'am." 

"You're  to  go  till  bed  now,"  said  the  woman  coldly. 
"You're  to  do  what  you're  told  when  you're  here,  Done- 
gal. Come  after  me  and  I'll  show  you  your  room." 

Maureen  lived  this  scene  over  again  as  she  sat  on  her 
bed  in  the  attic.  She  was  weary  but  could  not  get  to 
sleep.  In  fact  she  did  not  want  to  sleep.  It  was  so  cold  in 
the  room  with  the  wind  blowing  up  through  the  floor,  slid- 
ing in  slyly  under  the  door,  chilling  her  legs,  her  arms  and 
her  back.  Dark  things  lurked  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
glowering  out  at  the  hapless  girl.  Her  fancy  conjured  hor- 
rible visions  in  the  apartment.  Alternate  shades,  lighter 
where  the  moon  rays  streamed  through  the  window,  darker 
where  the  gloom  massed  itself  in  the  angles  of  the  walls, 
formed  themselves  into  varied  shapes,  spectral  and  forbid- 
ding. The  wind  sighing  against  the  window  was  some- 
thing, form  without  substance,  a  fell  spirit  trying  to  enter; 
the  low,  puling  cries  of  the  children  downstairs,  which 
could  be  heard  now  and  again,  sounded  like  the  groans  of 
souls  condemned  to  eternal  torment. 


'MRS.  TH'ORNTON  175 

Maureen  shuddered,  placed  her  elbow  on  her  little  check 
bundle  and  her  face  in  the  cup  of  her  hand.  Uncon- 
sciously her  eyes  closed,  her  head  slipped  down  the  fore- 
arm and  came  to  rest  in  the  crook  of  her  elbow.  Thus  Mrs. 
Thornton  found  her  when  she  came  to  wake  the  Donegal 
at  six  o  'clock  the  next  morning. 

IV 

"Well,  Donegal,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  when  she  and 
Maureen  came  down  to  the  apartment  termed  a  kitchen, 
which  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  lumber-room  into 
which  a  number  of  boxes  (and  one  cradle)  had  been  flung 
and  in  which  little  children  had  been  accidentally  placed. 
"Well,  Donegal,  do  you  always  sleep  with  your  clothes 
on?" 

"I  was  tired,  ma'am,"  Maureen  replied.  "And  I  sat 
down  for  a  minit  and  didn't  know  anything  more  till  ye 
wakened  me." 

"Well,  in  one  way  there's  somethin'  to  be  said  for  it, 
goin'  to  sleep  like  that,"  remarked  Mrs.  Thornton.  "You 
can  get  up  more  quick  in  the  mornin'  if  you  haven't  to  get 
in  till  your  clothes  when  I  call  you.  It's  good  from  that 
point  of  view,  but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  it's  a  sign  of 
lazy  bones,  and  lazy  bones  is  no  good  when  a  girl  has  to 
put  hand  till  a  hard  job." 

"But  I  had  next  to  no  sleep  the  night  afore  last,"  said 
Maureen. 

"Ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  drawing  attention  to 
something  which  Maureen's  speech  had  lacked. 

"Ma'am,"  Maureen  repeated. 

"Well,  it's  a  Donegal  cub  to  find  excuse  for  anything," 
said  Mrs.  Thornton  dryly.  "If  it's  fallin'  to  sleep  at  work 
it's  because  they  couldn't  sleep  the  night  before,  and  if 
they  go  out  till  the  well  for  a  pail  of  water  and  be  late 
comin'  back  it's  always  that  they've  sprained  an  ankle 
or  broke  a  leg  or  somethin'.  Lies!  God!  they  could  beat 
a  devil  with  their  lies.  That  is  most  of  them,  but  not  all, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Thornton  with  a  certain  graciousness.  "There 


176  MA  u  KEEN 

was  one,  the  girl  that  was  here  before  you,  and  she  was, 
was — "  The  mistress  was  on  the  point  of  saying  "good," 
but  the  word  being  too  definite  and  final  she  modified  the 
unspoken  utterance — "She  wasn't  a  bad  girl  in  her  way. 
Not  too  forward,  Donegal,  not  too  forward.  Her  name 
was  Mary  Sharkey." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Maureen,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton waited  for  a  reply. 

"She  always  got  up  when  I  called  her,  never  poked  her 
nose  into  what  didn't  consarn  her,  did  what  she  was  bid 
and  done  it  quickly,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "And  what 
she  would  ate  wasn  't  a  great  lot ;  I  mean  not  a  very  great 
lot,  not  like  some  Donegals  that  never  can  get  their  guts 
filled.  Now  are  ye  hard  to  fill,  Donegal  ? ' ' 

"Not  very,  ma'am,"  said  Maureen  timidly. 

"It's  breakfast  time  now,  and  what  would  you  like?" 
asked  Mrs.  Thornton,  holding  one  hand  against  the  other 
and  turning  her  eyes  ceilingwards  as  if  preparing  for  the 
worst. 

" Whatever 's  goin',  ma'am,"  said  Maureen. 

"That  means  nothin',"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "I'll  make 
the  breakfast  ready  and  you  put  your  hand  to  it." 

Maureen  looked  round  the  room,  which  showed  stark  and 
cold  in  the  morning,  with  no  relieving  tint  on  wall  or 
floor.  The  ash-dead  fireplace  represented  something  for- 
gotten and  lost.  In  front  of  it  stood  the  chair  on  which 
Maureen  had  hung  the  blankets  on  the  previous  night. 
These  blankets  were  gone  now.  One  of  them,  as  far  as 
could  be  seen,  now  covered  the  box  in  the  angle  of  the  room 
near  the  doorway,  and  the  other  was  on  the  cradle  under 
the  window.  The  fireplace  showed  no  change  from  the  pre- 
vious night,  as  if  turf  had  not  been  lit  on  it  since  then. 
If  that  was  so  the  children  were  covered  with  wet  blankets. 

One  child  was  sitting  up  in  a  box  sucking  its  thumb — 
a  sign  of  hunger.  Two  others  were  whimpering  beneath 
their  coverings,  the  one  in  the  cradle  was  hidden  and  silent. 
Mrs.  Thornton  watched  Maureen  as  the  girl  with  her  eyes 
took  stock  of  the  room. 

"Mary  Sharkey,"  said  the  woman  at  last,  "always  saw 


MRS.  THOENTON  177 

what  was  to  do  the  minit  she  got  up.  "With  her  one  hand 
wasn't  as  long  as  the  other  when  there  was  something  to 
do.  That  was  Mary  Sharkey,  not  a  bad  girl  in  her  way." 

"What '11  I  do,  ma'am?"  asked  Maureen. 

"What '11  you  do?"  said  Mrs.  Thornton  with  a  groan  of 
despair.  "You  ask  what  you'll  do  with  everything  to 
do!" 

"Will  I  wash  the  children?"  asked  Maureen. 

"You're  to  do  what  I  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton 
icily.  "First  you're  to  sweep  the  floor,  then  you're  to 
go  out  and  milch  the  cows  in  the  byre.  Then  make  the 
byre  and  after  that  wash  the  spuds  in  the  brook.  Then 
I'll  tell  you  what  else  to  do,  Donegal." 

Maureen  swept  the  floor,  milked  the  cows  (there  were 
two  of  them)  and  made  the  byre.  When  this  was  done 
she  went  to  Mrs.  Thornton,  who  was  boiling  a  kettle  over 
a  smoky  fire. 

"Well,  that  wasn't  so  long,"  said  the  woman,  referring 
to  the  work  which  Maureen  had  completed.  "Mary  Shar- 
key could  do  it  quicker,  much  quicker,  but  maybe  when 
you  get  used  till  it — " 

"Where  are  the  spuds,  ma'am?"  asked  Maureen. 

"The  spuds!"  asked  Mrs.  Thornton  in  an  awestruck 
voice.  "The  spuds!  What  spuds?" 

"The  ones  that  I'm  to  wash,  ma'am." 

"The  ones  that  you're  to  wash!"  repeated  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton, the  tone  of  awe  giving  place  to  one  of  agony.  "You 
mean  to  say  that  they're  not  washed  yet?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

' '  Oh,  Donegal ! ' '  said  the  woman,  awe  and  agony  giving 
place  to  resignation  in  her  voice.  "Oh,  Donegal!  Done- 
gal!" 

After  a  long  silence  she  deigned  to  tell  Maureen  where 
the  spuds  could  be  found,  and  after  these  were  washed  she 
gave  the  girl  several  duties  to  perform,  the  washing  of 
hippins,  the  scrubbing  of  tables  and  chairs,  straining  of 
milk,  and  the  many  other  jobs  which  a  house,  apparently 
unattended  for  many  days,  needed. 

"Now  we'll  have  our  breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton, 


178  MAUREEN 

"Donegals  are  quicker  to  table  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
world." 

It  was  now  nine  o'clock.  Maureen  was  very  hungry, 
but  feeling  pity  for  the  children  in  their  various  receptacles 
and  deeming  it  policy  to  suggest  that  they  should  be  fed 
first,  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"I  can  wait  till  the  children  have  their  breakfasts, 
ma'am,"  she  said.  "The  wee  dears  will  be  hungry." 

"Well,  that!"  the  woman  exclaimed,  raising  her  hands 
shoulder  high  and  dropping  them  helplessly  on  the  table 
at  which  she  sat.  "Well,  that!  And  a  Donegal,  too. 
Mary  Sharkey,  and  her  with  me  for  close  on  two  years, 
had  never  the  face  to  say  what  was  the  right  thing  for  her 
to  do.  Sit  down!  Have  your  breakfast  and  hold  your 
tongue!" 

Maureen  sat  down  and  ate  her  breakfast  in  silence.  The 
repast  was  a  very  poor  one,  cold  stirabout  and  sour  butter- 
milk. Maureen's  rusty  spoon  had  a  reasty  taste  that  set 
the  teeth  on  edge.  Her  bowl  seemed  never  to  have  known 
the  offices  of  a  dishclout;  its  exterior  was  streaked  yellow 
as  if  some  dye  had  fallen  there,  and  the  upper  rim  was 
spotted  with  specks  of  dried  clay,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  grafted  into  the  delf. 

Mrs.  Thornton  ate  very  quickly,  swallowing  her  stir- 
about with  guttle  and  guzzle,  making  a  noise  that  reminded 
Maureen  of  swine  in  a  trough.  When  she  had  finished  she 
hit  the  table  with  her  spoon  as  if  to  signify  that  time  was 
up. 

"Well,  Donegal,  I  have  a  good  appetite,"  she  exclaimed, 
"but—" 

Maureen  winced  at  the  insinuation,  but  continued  her 
meal. 

"Mary  Sharkey  always  finished  just  when  I  finished," 
said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "And  she  was  a  splendid  girl  with 
her  hands  when  she  had  a  day 's  work  f ornenst  her. ' ' 

Maureen  finished  her  meal,  but  felt  almost  as  hungry 
now  as  when  she  started.  She  would  have  liked  to  ask  for 
more,  but  several  things  prevented  her  from  doing  this. 
The  vessel  that  contained  the  food  filled  her  with  physical 


MRS.  THORNTON  179 

repulsion;  the  steely  eyes  of  her  mistress  cowed  her;  and 
the  vaunted  excellencies  of  Mary  Sharkey  threw  her  own 
incompetence  and  lack  of  servantly  qualities  into  the  glar- 
ing conspicuity  of  mud  blobs  on  a  lime-washed  wall. 

"Now,  Donegal,"  said  the  ogre,  "get  the  cows  out  and 
I'll  show  you  where  you're  to  drive  them  to.  And  when 
you're  there  I'll  tell  you  what  your  job  is." 

The  cows  were  taken  out  and  driven  into  a  field  crossed 
by  the  two  women  on  the  previous  night.  This  field  was 
strongly  fenced.  A  stick  thrown  across  the  gap  at  one 
end  would  be  sufficient  to  keep  the  cattle  in  the  pasture  all 
day.  Despite  this,  however,  Maureen  was  assigned  her 
position  in  the  field  on  top  of  a  mound  in  the  center. 

"You're  to  stay  here  all  the  day,"  said  the  woman, 
"right  on  top  iv  the  height,  and  keep  your  eyes  on  the 
cows  and  not  let  them  stray  all  over  the  country.  And  also 
keep  your  eye  on  the  road,"  she  continued,  pointing  her 
finger  into  the  distance  at  the  highway  that  roamed  across 
the  fields.  "Keep  your  eye  on  it,  and  if  you  see  any  one 
comin'  down  to  me,  in  the  house  with  you  as  hard  as  you 
can  skin  and  let  me  know.  By  any  one  I  mean  them  that 
comes  with  a  collar  and  tie  and  maybe  on  a  car.  People 
with  a  collar  and  tie  can't  be  trusted;  they're  mean  and 
mingy,  and  maybe  it's  puttin'  their  hands  on  things  that 
they  have  no  right  to.  Now  what  was  it  that  I've  told 
you  ? ' ' 

Maureen  repeated  the  instructions  given  by  the  woman. 

"That's  just  what  I  said,  Donegal,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton almost  grudgingly  as  if  she  were  incensed  at  Maureen 's 
ability  in  remembering  details.  "That's  what  I've  said, 
and  if  you've  an  eye  like  Mary  Sharkey  you'll  run  to 
me  in  that  great  hurry  that  if  you  fall  you'll  not  take  time 
to  rise.  And  another  thing,  Donegal,"  she  added,  "see 
that  house  away  there  at  the  butt  of  the  brae?" 

She  pointed  her  finger  at  a  slated  house  in  the  far  dis- 
tance. 

"You  see  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  see  it,  ma'am,"  said  Maureen. 

""Well,  take  heed  of  what  I  say,"  said  the  woman.  "Some 


180  MAUREEN 

day  you  may  see  a  white  sheet  put  out  on  the  holly  bush 
that's  on  this  near  side  iv  that  house.  The  minit  you  see 
a  white  sheet  put  out  there,  Donegal,  skin  down  to  me 
as  if  the  divil  from  hell  was  after  you  and  let  me  know. 
Now  what  have  you  to  do,  Donegal,  if  ever  you  see  a  white 
sheet  on  the  holly  bush?" 

"Run  and  tell  you,  ma'am,"  Maureen  replied. 

"Now  you  know  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"You're  here  to  do  what  I  tell  you,  to  watch  the  cows, 
the  road  and  the  holly  bush.  And  if  you  don't  do  it,  I'll 
peel  the  skin  off  iv  the  back  iv  you." 

Then  leaving  the  girl  to  herself  and  her  cows  she  went 
back  to  the  house. 

At  one  o'clock  she  returned  with  some  cold  potatoes  and 
an  aged  herring  which  to  judge  by  its  taste  must  have 
lain  in  the  pickling-bin  since  last  Candlemas.  These  she 
gave  to  Maureen  with  the  curt  announcement  that  it  was 
dinner-time. 

"And  don't  fall  to  sleep  while  ye 're  atin',"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton.  "All  the  Donegal  cubs,  bar  Mary  Sharkey 
maybe,  had  a  habit  of  falling  till  sleep  without  rhyme 
or  reason. ' ' 

There  was  no  tea  given  the  girl,  and  at  seven  o'clock, 
weary  to  death  and  hungry,  she  drove  the  cows  in,  tied 
them  to  their  stakes  and  milked  them.  After  that  a  num- 
ber of  little  jobs  were  done,  washing  of  potatoes,  tidying 
the  nursery,  carrying  in  peat  from  the  stack  outside  the 
door  and  piling  them  in  a  snug  heap  against  the  wall  of 
the  kitchen. 

"Now  you'll  be  wantin'  somethin'  in  your  guts,  I  war- 
rant," said  Mrs.  Thornton  when  Maureen  had  finished. 
"You've  the  will  of  the  table  that  I  sit  at  myself,  so  down 
and  make  a  meal  iv  it." 

Maureen  sat  down  to  her  spoon  and  bowl,  the  same  as 
she  had  in  the  morning.  It  was  stirabout  again  and  but- 
termilk. Maureen  ate  quickly,  but  not  as  quickly  as  Mrs. 
Thornton.  When  the  mistress  finished  guzzling  she  looked 
at  the  girl. 


MRS.  THORNTON  181 

"You  can  put  it  down,"  she  said  with  a  sarcastic  leer 
curling  her  dry  lips.  "Ye  can  put  it  down,  Donegal.  .  .  . 
But  finish  the  bowl  and  off  to  bed  with  you." 


Weeks  crawled  by,  and  with  the  passage  of  time  Mau- 
reen gained  some  idea  of  her  mistress,  though  she  was 
slow  in  forming  a  definite  conception  of  the  woman.  She 
only  saw  Mrs.  Thornton  in  the  morning  and  evening,  when 
tidying  the  nursery,  making  the  byre,  milking  the  cows, 
and  eating  her  meals.  All  the  time  that  was  not  spent  in 
the  field  herding  the  cows,  she  was  under  the  supervision 
of  the  woman.  Even  out  in  the  pasture  land  she  would 
at  times  become  conscious  of  being  observed,  and  looking 
back  from  her  post  to  the  house  she  would  now  and  again 
see  the  mistress  watching  her  through  a  window  or  door. 

Mrs.  Thornton  never  allowed  the  girl  to  come  near  the 
children. 

"Donegals  know  nothin'  about  wains,"  she  used  to  say 
when  Maureen  approached  one  of  the  cots  in  the  kitchen. 
' '  If  you  're  not  told  to  go  near  them,  don 't  go  near  them. ' ' 

The  woman's  order  was  a  threat,  and  Maureen  kept 
away  from  the  children,  though  her  heart  was  filled  with 
pity  for  the  little  mites.  They  seemed  to  belong  to  no- 
body, and  they  never  laughed.  They  opened  their  eyes 
in  the  morning,  looked  out  from  their  dirty  cots  with 
that  serious,  wondering  look  of  little  children  to  which  is 
added  a  peculiar  restless  air  that  is  not  the  property  of 
the  well-treated  young.  What  their  ages  might  be  Maureen 
could  not  estimate.  It  was  a  harrowing  sight  to  see  them 
start  crying  when  their  morning  inspection  of  the  kitchen 
came  to  an  end.  All  through  the  day  they  howled  alter- 
nately or  in  unison,  querulous  atoms  that  seemed  to  cry 
against  the  injustice  of  a  plight  to  which  they  were  con- 
demned. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  a  tall,  angular  woman,  cut  from  a 
heavy  pattern  and  utterly  devoid  of  all  the  mental  graces 


182  MAUREEN 

which  tone  down  austerity  of  features  and  inconcinnity 
of  bodily  form.  Laughter,  kindliness  and  love  were  utterly 
foreign  to  her.  She  was  a  hard  woman,  cruel  and  greedy, 
the  springs  of  pity,  if  they  ever  existed,  dry  in  her  soul. 
Her  age  might  have  been  thirty,  probably  a  little  more. 

Though  Mrs.  Thornton  kept  Maureen  in  ignorance  re- 
garding the  children,  there  was  the  loose  tongue  of  the 
assemblage  which  undid  in  a  moment  the  barrier  which 
took  months  to  build.  The  tongue  in  this  case  belonged 
to  Susan  Lacy,  a  servant  on  a  neighboring  farm.  This 
servant  accompanied  Maureen  as  the  girl  was  on  her  way 
back  from  the  Catholic  chapel  of  Newtonsmith  one  Sunday 
morning  towards  the  latter  end  of  August. 

"Ye 're  out  early  on  it  the  mornin',"  said  Susan  at  the 
chapel  gate,  by  way  of  greeting. 

"I  go  to  Mass  this  early  every  Sunday  mornin V'  Mau- 
reen replied.  "It's  only  to  mornin'  Mass  that  I'm  let." 

"So  it's  with  Her  that  ye 're?"  asked  the  girl  whom 
Maureen  had  never  before  met. 

"Mrs.  Thornton!    It  is,  sure." 

"And  how  many  wains  has  she  on  her  now?" 

"Four,"  Maureen  replied. 

"And  when  are  they  goin'  to  die?"  asked  Susan  casually. 

' '  Die ! ' '  Maureen  echoed.    * '  I  don 't  know  what  ye  mean ! '  * 

"Iv  course  an'  ye  don't  at  all,"  said  the  other  girl  with 
a  knowing  nod.  "Catch  Her  gettin'  ones  to  work  in  her 
place  that's  not  green  on  it.  She  murders  all  the  wains 
that  she  gets." 

"How?"  asked  Maureen  with  a  shudder.  "What  does 
she  do  to  them?" 

"I'm  sure  that  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl.  "It's 
wains  out  iv  the  workhouse  that  she  gets,  them  kind  iv 
wains  ye  know  that  nobody  wants." 

"Aye,"  Maureen  nodded,  recalling  her  own  life  in 
Dungarrow. 

"They're  called  by  a  quality  word,  them  wains,  ligiti- 
mate,"  said  the  girl.  "But  it  doesn't  matter  what  name 
they  get,  they're  always  the  same.  And  when  they  go 
to  Her  they're  as  good  as  done  for." 


MRS.  THORNTON  183 

"But  can't  the  polls  take  them  away  from  her  if  she's 
like  that?"  Maureen  inquired. 

"They  can't  nab  the  weasel  and  it  sleeping,"  was  the 
reply.  "The  polis  can't  get  up  soon  enough  for  her  over 
there.  No  one  sees  Her  to  do  anything,  and  the  wains 
die  with  decline  or  somethin',  and  the  girls  that  had  them 
pay  Mrs.  Thornton." 

"But  if  she's  like  that  can't  nobody  tell  on  her?"  asked 
Maureen. 

' '  If  they  tell  what  can  they  prove  ? ' '  said  Susan.  * '  Noth- 
in'  at  all,  and  nothin's  no  good  with  no  evidence." 

Maureen  went  home  from  Mass  that  day  her  head  filled 
with  thoughts  perplexing  and  strange.  She  walked  along 
the  road,  her  boots  well  worn  at  toe  and  heel,  scraping 
the  gravel,  her  head  sunk  on  her  breast.  These  children 
had  something  in  common  with  herself,  she  thought,  "One 
of  them  kind  iv  wains  that  nobody  wants. ' ' 

"Like  meself,"  she  said,  almost  grimly.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  mother  that  watched  over  her  in  the  home 
in  Dungarrow.  "I  wasn't  left  all  on  my  own  when  I  was 
wee,"  she  said,  and  as  she  thought  of  this  a  wave  of  pity 
towards  the  poor,  ill-treated  children  in  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Thornton  filled  her  soul. 

."But  maybe  it's  only  talk,"  she  said,  recalling  the 
story  told  her  a  short  time  ago.  "People  do  be  sayin' 
things.  But  I'll  find  out  for  meself  the  night,"  she 
added. 

That  night  she  found  out  for  herself.  Unable  to  sleep 
in  her  attic,  she  sat  on  her  bed,  turning  over  in  her  mind 
what  she  had  heard  that  morning.  At  one  o'clock,  draw- 
ing her  shawl  round  her  shoulders,  she  stole  down  the 
stairs  in  stocking  soles  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

Here  all  was  dark.  Out  of  the  gloom  came  the  sound 
of  a  child  crying,  and  rising  louder  was  the  heavy  snore 
of  Mrs.  Thornton,  asleep  on  the  bed  in  the  corner  of  the 
room.  On  the  left  as  she  entered  was  one  of  the  boxes 
under  the  window.  Holding  her  breath,  Maureen  stole  up 
quietly  and  touched  the  blanket  which  covered  the  baby. 
The  wrap,  as  she  had  suspected,  was  wet  as  if  it  had  been 


184  MAUREEN 

recently  soaked  in  water.  It  was  one  of  the  blankets  which 
the  girl  had  washed  before  coming  to  bed. 

Two  hours  later  the  Inspector  of  the  N.  S.  P.  C.  C., 
resident  at  Newtonsmith,  was  roused  from  his  sleep  by  a 
local  policeman  who  was  accompanied  by  a  girl  that  de- 
sired to  make  a  certain  statement  to  the  Inspector.  The 
matter  of  which  she  wanted  to  speak  related  to  children 
who  were  treated  harshly  in  the  neighborhood.  The  girl 
made  a  statement  but  would  not  give  the  Inspector  her 
name,  not  even  when  he  assured  her  that  the  Society 
would  never  disclose  her  identity. 

That  morning  Maureen  O'Malley  was  afoot  and  at  work 
when  Mrs.  Thornton  awoke. 

VI 

At  ten  o'clock  of  that  day,  when  Maureen  was  sitting 
on  her  hillock  in  the  center  of  the  pasture  field,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  slated  house  in  the  distance,  the  property  of 
Bob  Baxter,  she  saw  a  white  sheet  wave  out  and  cover  the 
holly  bush  that  stood  by  the  near  gable  end.  The  girl 
got  to  her  feet,  stood  for  a  moment,  as  if  undecided  as  to 
what  she  should  do,  then  ran  to  her  mistress  to  inform  her 
of  this  occurrence. 

' '  They  are  comin ' ! "  shrieked  Mrs.  Thornton,  rising  from 
the  table  at  which  she  sat,  when  she  saw  the  girl  cross 
the  threshold. 

"The  sheet  on  the  holly  bush,"  Maureen  gasped,  sud- 
denly feeling  that  she  had  done  wrong  in  coming  in.  The 
white  sheet  was  probably  a  signal  of  danger  hung  out 
by  Mr.  Baxter.  No  doubt  the  police  were  now  on  their 
way  towards  the  house. 

"Well,  get  to  work,  get  your  hands  to  it,  to  the  job  at 
once!"  shouted  Mrs.  Thornton,  rushing  to  the  cradle  and 
with  one  sweep  lifting  the  blanket  which  covered  the  child 
therein  and  throwing  the  blanket  at  Maureen.  "And  this! 
And  this!  And  this!"  she  roared,  uncovering  the  boxes 
and  throwing  the  wraps  on  the  floor.  ' '  Take  them  all  with 
you  as  fast  as  you  can  and  put  them  in  the  byre.  In  a 


MRS.  THORNTON  185 

place  that's  dry,  and  don't  trail  them  in  the  dung.  Run 
like  hell,  run!  And  come  back!" 

The  greed-bitten  woman  slavered  and  spluttered  as  she 
gave  directions,  but  never  ceased  in  her  work  for  a  mo- 
ment. Maureen  lifted  the  blankets  and  found  that  they 
were  all  wringing  wet,  just  as  if  they  had  come  from  a 
washing-tub.  Taking  them  out  she  placed  them  in  the 
byre  and  on  coming  back  found  that  Mrs.  Thornton  had 
taken  some  children's  clothes  and  dry  blankets  from  some 
hidden  recess  of  the  house.  These  lay  on  a  chair  under  the 
window. 

The  woman  was  now  tending  a  child  with  affectionate 
solicitude,  rubbing  its  belly  with  a  dry  towel,  washing 
its  face  and  head  and  wrapping  it  in  warm  swathing-bands. 
On  the  floor  lay  a  heap  of  old  and  evil-smelling  garments, 
the  every-day  appointments  of  the  baby. 

"Out  with  these,  Donegal,"  shouted  the  mistress,  point- 
ing her  finger  at  the  huddle  of  dirty  clothes.  "Put  them 
intil  the  tub  outside  the  door  and  mind  that  they're  to  be 
washed  if  there's  ones  puttin'  any  questions  till  you." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Maureen,  and  did  as  she  was  di- 
rected. 

Twenty  minutes  later  a  man,  tall,  with  a  slight  stoop, 
dressed  in  knickers  and  a  Norfolk  jacket,  came  to  the  door 
and  entered.  By  this  time  the  children  were  all  nicely 
arranged  in  their  cots,  two  regaling  themselves  from  milk- 
bottles,  one  sucking  a  dummy  teat,  and  a  fourth  whimper- 
ing. As  the  stranger  came  in,  the  woman  fixed  a  surprised 
look  on  him  as  if  she  had  not  expected  a  visitor.  He 
looked  round  the  room,  taking  stock  of  all  the  inmates. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  the  day,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton, 
with  a  certain  jaunty  air  purporting  that  though  she  did 
not  expect  the  visitor  she  was  in  no  way  put  out  by  his 
coming. 

"True,  true,  Mrs.  Thornton,"  said  the  man  politely 
but  firmly,  as  if  excusing  himself  for  the  unheralded  visit 
but  giving  the  impression  that  he  was  only  doing  his  duty 
coming  in  this  manner.  "Now,"  he  asked,  in  a  polite 
tone,  "how  are  they  all  under  your  care?" 


186  MAUREEN 

"Just  as  you  see,"  said  the  woman  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand.  This  wave  embraced  all  the  room,  the  cobwebs  on 
the  roof,  the  children  and  even  Maureen.  On  this  last 
perquisite  of  the  establishment  the  man  fixed  a  look  of 
vague  recognition  as  if  he  had  met  her  on  some  previous 
occasion. 

"Donegal?"  he  inquired  casually,  and  Mrs.  Thornton 
nodded. 

"A  smarter  lookin'  girl  than  the  one  that  was  here," 
said  the  man,  speaking  as  if  the  object  under  considera- 
tion were  not  within  ear-shot. 

"Aye,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  drawling  out  her  mono- 
syllable as  if  it  were  subject  to  great  modification. 

"Well,  how  about  these?"  said  the  man,  crossing  the 
room  to  the  child  that  was  whimpering  a  moment  pre- 
viously. Now  it  was  sitting  up  sucking  its  finger.  "This 
one  looks  ill.  Is  it?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"It's  too  thin  on  it.    Do  you  give  it  enough  food?" 

"It  doesn't  take  kindly  to  its  meals,"  said  the  woman. 
"It's  wastin'." 

"Have  you  seen  the  doctor  about  it?"  inquired  the 
man. 

"He  was  here  three  months  back,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton with  an  upward  turn  of  her  chin  like  an  animal  at 
bay.  "And  I  had  to  pay  him  for  it,  too." 

"But  there's  the  dispensary  doctor  that  you  can  call 
in  free,"  said  the  visitor.  "Why  haven't  you  got  him  to 
see  the  children?" 

"I  haven't  time  to  leave  them  to  go  and  look  for  the 
doctor,"  said  the  woman.  "If  I  did  the  dear  knows  what 
would  take  place. ' ' 

"Well,  send  the  girl  to  the  doctor  if  you  can't  go  your- 
self," said  the  man,  pointing  at  Maureen.  "And  this 
child?"  he  inquired,  looking  at  the  one  that  was  sucking 
its  thumb.  "You  got  it  from  the  workhouse  six  months 
ago?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman.  "Indeed  and  it  was  a  poor 
ranny  of  a  wain  when  it  came  here.  The  mother,  her 


MRS.  THORNTON  187 

that  had  it,  said  it  was  makin'  no  sign  of  doin'  good." 

"Mary  Lyon?"  asked  the  visitor. 

Mrs.  Thornton  nodded. 

" Where  is  the  girl  now?" 

"Hired  in  Dawlish,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "But  the 
keepin'  iv  that  wain  is  a  hard  job.  And  I  get  paid  for  my 
trouble  only  thirty-two  and  six  a  month." 

"And  for  these  others?"  asked  the  man  in  the  Nor- 
folk jacket,  taking  a  book  and  pencil  from  his  pocket  and 
making  an  entry.  "You  get  paid  for  them,  too?" 

"For  two  of  them,"  said  the  woman.  "The  other's  my 
own  wain. ' ' 

"What's  the  age  of  the  child  Lyon?"  asked  the  man. 

"Past  two." 

"Can  it  walk?" 

"Not  yet.     It's  doncy  on  it." 

"Can  it  stand?" 

"It  can't,"  said  the  woman.  "And  if  it  can't,  I  can't 
make  it." 

"I  suppose  you  can't,"  said  the  visitor,  again  looking 
at  Maureen. 

"Do  you  like  your  place?"  he  asked  her. 

"Middling,"  said  Maureen;  "if  it  wasn't  that  I  was 
half  starved." 

"What!"  yelled  Mrs.  Thornton.  "Half  starved  and 
you  sit  at  the  same  table  as  myself!" 

"I  thought  I  did,  till  I  came  in  the  day  to  find  you  sit- 
tin'  down  to  this,"  said  Maureen,  pointing  to  the  table 
at  which  Mrs.  Thornton  was  sitting  when  she  entered  half 
an  hour  previously.  Here  a  good  breakfast  was  spread 
out,  a  large  bowl  of  tea,  several  thick  slices  of  bread  and 
butter  and  a  plate  which  contained  two  eggs  and  a  rasher 
of  bacon. 

"There,  listen  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  appealing 
to  the  visitor.  "A  full  breakfast  in  the  morn,  and  dinner 
and  supper  that  would  do  the  heart  good  to  see  and,  and, 
and — "  she  faltered  and  stopped  as  if  her  rage  had  over- 
mastered her. 

"Out!"   she   shrieked   when   composure   was  regained. 


188  MAUREEN 

"Out,  Donegal,  and  set  about  washin'  the  clothes  for  the 
wains!  And  mind  you  don't  let  me  see  your  nose  inside 
the  door  till  I  send  for  you." 

Thus  admonished,  Maureen  with  a  shrug  of  indifference 
made  her  way  outside  and  began  her  washing.  Half  an 
hour  later  she  was  still  there,  when  the  visitor  in  the  Nor- 
folk jacket  left  and  made  his  way  across  the  fields  to  the 
highroad. 

"Now,"  said  Maureen  to  herself  when  silence  fell  on 
the  house,  "now  it'll  be  for  me  that  she'll  be  goin'  when 
she  comes  out.  Well,  there,  let  her  if  she  does.  I  don't 
care!" 

As  she  spoke  these  words  she  gave  a  stubborn  shake  of 
head  and  rinsed  the  clothes  so  viciously  that  an  on- 
looker would  have  thought  the  girl  bore  the  habiliments 
of  the  children  some  enmity. 

An  hour  passed  and  still  Mrs.  Thornton  did  not  come 
outside  the  door.  It  was  then  that  the  girl  heard  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  and  presently  a  man,  stout  and  pant- 
ing, as  if  he  had  been  running,  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
house.  It  was  Mrs.  Thornton's  friend,  Bob  Baxter,  the 
man  who  drove  the  car  home  from  the  hiring-fair  of  Stra- 
bane.  Maureen  knew  him  well,  having  often  seen  him 
since  when  he  visited  the  house  of  her  mistress. 

"Maureen,  dear,  are  you  busy  at  your  work?"  he  asked 
in  soft,  sugary  tones. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Maureen  replied,  having  been  ordered  by 
Mrs.  Thornton  to  address  Baxter  as  "sir"  whenever  she 
spoke  to  him. 

"And  your  mistress?"  the  man  asked. 

"She's  inside,"  said  Maureen. 

The  man  went  indoors  and  for  half  an  hour  Maureen 
could  hear  the  sound  of  low  voices  from  the  house.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  Mrs.  Thornton  stuck  her  head  through 
the  door. 

"Come  in,  Donegal,"  she  called.  "I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

Maureen  went  in.     Mr.  Baxter  was  sitting  on  a  chair 


MRS.  THORNTON  189 

near  the  window,  one  leg  across  the  other  and  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth.  Mrs.  Thornton  stood  near  the  table,  arms 
folded  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  Maureen. 

"Donegal,"  said  she  in  a  low,  angry  voice,  which  caused 
Maureen  to  start,  not  because  it  was  angry,  for  Mrs. 
Thornton  seemed  always  in  a  temper,  but  because  it  was 
low.  The  mistress  generally  shrieked  her  reprimands. 
"Donegal,"  she  said,  "what's  that  that  you  said  about 
your  meals  here  in  my  house?" 

"The  truth,"  said  Maureen  defiantly. 

"But  you  sit  at  the  same  table  as  myself,"  said  the 
woman.  "And  that  was  what  I  said  when  we  made  the 
bargain  at  Strabane  the  day  of  the  fair.  I  said  you'd  have 
your  meals  at  the  same  table  as  myself.  Didn't  I  now, 
Bob?"  she  appealed  to  her  friend. 

"That  was  the  bargain,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  Mau- 
reen. 

"And  you  have  breakfast  with  me  at  the  table  every 
morning,"  Mrs.  Thornton  reminded  Maureen.  "Every 
mornin'  since  you  came  here.  And  you're  free  to  go  to 
duties  every  Sunday." 

"I've  to  get  up  an  hour  earlier  every  Sunday  morn 
to  do  the  work  afore  I  leave  the  house,"  said  Maureen,  a 
flood  of  color  settling  on  her  face.  "And  then  I've  to 
work  an  hour  later  in  the  night  when  I  come  back." 

"But  it  wasn't  in  the  bargain  that  you  hadn't  to  do 
these  things,"  the  mistress  persisted.  "You'll  bear  me 
out  in  what  I  say,  Bob." 

"I'll  bear  you  out  in  that,  Mrs.  Thornton,"  said  Bob. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  either  iv  the  two  iv  ye  say," 
said  Maureen  in  an  angry  voice  which  was  as  much  a  sur- 
prise to  herself  as  to  the  listeners.  "It's  not  the  life  iv  a 
dog  here.  Even  cows  in  the  field  get  a  change  in  what 
they  ate,  but  here  it's  always  the  same.  To  think  that 
anybody  would  be  made  to  eat  next  to  nothin'  and  then 
get  what  they  eat  in  a  bowl  that's  too  dirty  to  be  set  afore 
a  pig!" 

Mrs.  Thornton  positively  reeled;  she  turned  pale,  then 


190  MAUREEN 

red.  She  fixed  a  malign  glance  on  Maureen,  then  sud- 
denly, as  if  seeing  a  way  of  getting  the  better  of  the  girl, 
her  lips  formed  in  a  diabolical  smile. 

"I'm  afeeard  that  she's  no  good  for  here,"  she  said, 
speaking  to  Bob.  "We'd  do  worse  than  chase  her 
away. ' ' 

"Not  till  ye  pay  me  up  to  the  day,  anyway,"  said  Mau- 
reen doggedly.  Now,  having  overstepped  a  certain  limit 
and  spoken  angrily  to  Mrs.  Thornton,  she  felt  as  in  a  de- 
lirium that  there  was  nothing  more  in  the  house  sacred  to 
her.  In  her  heart  was  a  sudden  itching  to  defy  all  re- 
strictions and  enjoy  liberty  of  speech,  unbridled  and  un- 
bounded. 

"Aye,  ye  take  a  girl  here  as  yer  servant  and  treat  her 
as  a  slave,"  she  said,  speaking  very  quietly,  and  letting 
word  by  word  drop  slowly  from  her  lips,  as  if  they  were 
things  of  value  to  be  doled  out  sparingly.  "You  take  a 
girl  here  and  it's  up  early  and  down  late  with  never  a 
minute  to  herself  and  next  to  nothing  to  eat.  And  such 
a  house  as  one  has  to  go  into  with  a  bed  that's  no  better 
than  a  beggar's  shakedown  and  a  roof  lettin'  in  the  rain 
on  yer  face  whenever  it's  a  shower.  That's  the  kind  iv  a 
house  that  a  girl  gets  here." 

Suddenly  she  broke  down  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  sob- 
bing. The  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  Mrs.  Thornton  looked  at  the  girl  with  self-satis- 
fied smirk.  It  was  right  and  proper  that  Maureen,  the 
Donegal,  should  be  made  to  weep. 

' '  She 's  too  proud  on  it, ' '  she  said  to  Mr.  Baxter.  ' '  That 's 
what's  wrong  with  the  girl.  Far  above  her  station!" 

"You're  too  hard  on  her,  I  think,"  said  Bob  in  a  voice 
peculiarly  kind.  "Let  her  go  out  to  her  cows  now  and 
she'll  be  all  right  come  dinner-time." 

"Donegal,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  "go  out  to  the  cows, 
and  I'll  have  more  to  say  to  you  when  I've  time  to  spare 
the  night." 

But  that  night  Mrs.  Thornton,  having  troubles  of  her 
own,  had  no  time  at  her  disposal  to  heap  opprobrium  on 
the  head  of  the  Donegal.  During  the  afternoon  a  doctor 


MRS.  THORNTON  191 

called  in  to  see  the  children,  and  the  child  Lyon,  the 
illegitimate  offspring  of  the  servant  girl,  Mary  Lyon,  was 
taken  back  to  the  mansion  which  saw  its  birth,  the  parish 
workhouse. 

vn 

When  the  magistrates  at  Newtonsmith  Petty  Sessions 
came  to  the  decision  that  the  woman  Thornton  was  guilty 
of  wilful  neglect  in  the  case  of  the  child  Lyon,  which  died 
in  the  workhouse,  they  sentenced  her  to  nine  months'  im- 
prisonment. In  this  way  was  justice  administered,  and 
the  bald  pates  and  lichen-gray  beards  nodded  together  on 
the  bench,  satisfied  that  they  had  done  the  right  thing  in 
the  eyes  of  God  and  man  in  sentencing  the  woman  for  her 
gross  violation  of  all  laws  human  and  divine.  In  the  fur- 
thering of  civilization  towards  an  ultimate  goal  of  well- 
being  and  brotherly  love,  Maureen  O'Malley  had  also  done 
her  duty.  As  witness  for  the  prosecution  she  had  told  of 
the  little  children  starving  in  the  house  of  her  mistress, 
told  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth 
as  she  had  sworn  to  do.  The  Gods  of  justice  were  appeased, 
the  criminal  was  sentenced  and  the  well-fed  magistrates 
ambled  home  to  their  dinners.  They  left  the  court-house 
just  as  Maureen  O'Malley,  homeless  and  forgotten,  went 
out  alone  into  the  bare  street  of  Newtonsmith. 

What  to  do  now  she  had  not  the  least  idea.  The  house 
in  which  she  had  stayed  for  the  last  four  months  was  de- 
serted, the  children  were  gone,  the  mistress  gone.  It  was 
no  good  going  back  there.  And  Maureen  had  not  a  penny. 

But  still  it  was  harvest-time.  The  weather  was  fine,  the 
workers  were  busy  in  the  hay  and  cornfields.  The  crops 
were  being  gathered  in  and  stored  for  the  coming  winter. 
Surely  it  would  be  easy  to  get  a  job. 

"So  you're  free,  Maureen!" 

The  man  who  spoke  was  Bob  Baxter.  He  had  just  come 
out  from  one  of  the  shops  that  lined  the  street,  a  bundle 
in  his  arms.  This  he  flung  with  a  mighty  heave  into  the 
well  of  his  side-car  that  stood  by  the  curb. 


192  MAUREEN 

"Free  from  what,  Mr.  Baxter?"  asked  Maureen  coldly. 
She  did  not  like  the  man. 

"From  the  polis  and  the  court,"  said  Baxter  with  a 
low  laugh.  "To  think  iv  it!  Maureen  givin'  away  Mrs. 
Thornton." 

' '  She 's  not  Mrs., ' '  said  Maureen.    ' '  She 's  '  Miss. '  ' ' 

"Ah!  and  they've  found  out  all  about  her,"  said  the 
man  with  a  start.  "What  else  did  they  find  out?"  he 
asked.  "I  hadn't  time  to  go  myself.  I've  such  a  lot  to 
do  with  the  harvest." 

"I  don't  know  what  they  said,"  said  Maureen  wearily. 
"It's  past  thinkin'  iv  the  kind  iv  a  woman  that  she  was." 
The  girl  spoke  as  if  Mrs.  Thornton  had  left  the  world  for 
good. 

"But  I  thought  that  she  was  a  married  woman,"  said 
Baxter,  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  car  and  looking 
at  Maureen. 

"  'Twas  dacenter  to  let  on  that  she  was,  I  suppose," 
said  Maureen.  "But  anyway  I  don't  want  to  talk  any 
more  about  her." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  the  man  thoughtfully.  "She'll  be  in 
the  black  hole  for  nine  months.  And  what  are  you  goin' 
to  do  now,  Maureen?"  he  asked  suddenly  as  if  the  plight 
of  the  Donegal  just  occurred  to  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maureen.  "But  as  long  as  one 
trusts  in  God  things  will  turn  out  for  the  best  in  the  long 
run." 

"Yes,  I  suppose,  Maureen,  that  that's  one  way  to  look 
at  it,"  he  replied.  "But  it  never  helps  to  sow  the  corn." 

"That  an'  all,"  said  Maureen  proudly,  "I'd  rather 
tramp  the  roads  than  be  in  a  house  like  the  house  that  I 
was  in." 

"Aye,  'twas  a  hard  house,"  the  man  agreed.  "But 
maybe  she'd  her  own  troubles,  for  one  never  knows.  Any- 
way, we'll  not  speak  any  more  about  her.  About  yourself, 
Maureen,"  he  added.  "Now  where  are  you  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  the  girl. 

"But  it's  not  the  thing  to  go  out  on  the  road  and  not 


MRS.  THORNTON  193 

knowin'  where  it  will  lead  to,"  said  Bob  Baxter.  "Every- 
body has  servants  and  to  spare,  and  no  one  will  give  you 
a  job.  The  harvest  is  almost  in,  anyway. ' ' 

"It's  used  to  things  worse  even  than  trampin'  the  road 
that  I  am,"  said  Maureen,  wrapping  her  shawl  round  her 
shoulders  as  if  on  the  point  of  going  off.  "One  gets  tired 
iv  a  house  that  they  don't  like,  and  it's  not  half  as  hard 
to  bear  the  roads." 

' '  But  the  ones  that  bees  on  the  road, ' '  said  Baxter,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "You  never  know  what  you're  runnin'  up 
against,  beggars  and  tinkers  maybe." 

"Maybe  there  are  ones  that  bees  called  dacent  and  them 
worse  and  far  worse  than  beggars  and  tinkers,"  said  Mau- 
reen. "Anyway  it's  off  that  I  am." 

' '  But  if  ye  'd  get  a  place  would  you  take  it  ? "  asked  Bax- 
ter. "A  good  place,  and  not  in  any  way  like  the  one  that 
you  were  in  last?  "Would  you  take  it?" 

"I  would  sure,"  was  the  girl's  reply.  "But  where 's 
the  place?" 

"It's  a  girl  to  help  in  the  house,  that's  wanted,"  said 
Baxter.  "The  work's  light  and  the  table's  at  her  will,  not 
like  a  table  that  I've  heard  iv  not  so  long  ago." 

As  he  said  these  last  words  a  thick  smile  crawled  across 
his  face  and  he  fixed  a  knowing  look  on  Maureen  and 
winked. 

"Where's  this  place,  then?"  asked  the  girl. 

"On  my  farm,"  said  the  man.  "It'll  be  aisy  for  you 
there,  for  I'm  never  hard  on  them  that  I  get  to  work." 

"And  what's  the  wages?"  asked  Maureen,  putting  the 
question  idly  in  order  to  have  a  moment  to  consider  the 
offer. 

"Well,  the  year's  well  on  now,"  said  Mr.  Baxter  slowly. 
"This  is  the  third  day  of  September,  and  it  leaves  just  a 
month  and  a  half  till  the  hirin'  iv  Strabane.  What  d'ye 
say  to  thirty  bob?" 

"  I  'd  rather  chance  my  luck  on  the  road, ' '  said  Maureen, 
shaking  her  head  in  proud  defiance,  as  if  throwing  a  chal- 
lenge in  the  face  of  the  future. 


194  MAUREEN 

"Thirty-two  and  six,"  said  the  man.  "Yell  have  the 
cookin'  to  do  and  that  means  that  ye '11  have  charge  of  the 
place,  bag  and  baggage." 

"And  can  I  get  to  my  duties?" 

"Every  Sunday,"  said  Mr.  Baxter.  "Every  Sunday, 
and  ye '11  not  have  to  get  up  earlier  on  that  account.  I 
always  act  fair  and  above  board  to  them  that's  hired  in 
my  house.  Thirty-two  and  six  money  down  on  the  twelfth 
of  November  and  the  hiring-fair  on  then." 

He  drawled  out  the  last  words  lovingly  as  if  the  winter 
hiring-fair  was  a  privilege  for  which  the  man  himself 
was  responsible. 

Maureen  was  silent,  weighing  over  in  her  mind  the  offer 
which  Baxter  had  just  made  her.  A  fever  of  restlessness 
and  fear  as  she  contemplated  the  future  seized  the  girl; 
her  whole  body  quivered.  The  road  leading  from  the  town 
out  into  the  country  beyond  stretched  away  from  her  feet, 
cold  and  forbidding.  If  she  could  not  get  a  job  starva- 
tion lay  in  front  of  her.  Dangers  would  certainly  beset 
her  on  the  highway  where  without  surety  for  the  future  all 
ends  were  uncertain.  Baxter  might  really  be  a  good  man. 
She  recollected  how  he  had  spoken  on  her  behalf  a  few 
weeks  previously  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Thornton.  Should 
she  accept  the  man's  offer?  Anyway,  beggars  are  not 
choosers.  She  thought  of  the  cold  hedgerows  by  night,  the 
pitiless  sky,  the  falling  rain. 

"And  my  house  is  far  and  away  nearer  Newtonsmith 
church  than  the  one  you  were  in,"  said  the  man  as  if  con- 
tinuing a  subject,  although  he  had  not  spoken  for  five 
minutes.  "And  it'll  be  easy  to  go  there  and  easy  to  get 
back." 

"All  right;  I'll  come  with  ye,"  said  Maureen,  bowing 
her  head  as  if  to  a  destiny  which  she  felt  approaching. 

vm 

It  was  dry  and  cold  out  of  doors,  with  a  brisk  wind 
shaking  the  aging  leaves  from  the  trees  and  blowing  them 
across  the  farmyard.  Here  the  trampled  droppings  of 


MRS.  THORNTON  195 

cows,  chaff  from  winnowing  fans  and  wisps  of  hay  and 
straw  coalescing  formed  a  thick  mulch  which  covered  the 
cobblestones. 

Maureen  O  'Malley,  after  a  hard  day 's  work,  milking  and 
feeding  cows,  cleaning  out  the  byre  and  stable  and  doing 
the  hundred  and  one  other  jobs  which  come  to  the  farm- 
hand every  day,  felt  very  weary  as  she  went  to  her  room 
and  sat  down  on  the  corner  of  her  bed  for  a  moment,  wish- 
ing, with  the  vague  dream  of  the  weary  when  it  is  bed 
hour,  that  by  some  mysterious  process  she  could  get  into 
bed  without  the  trouble  of  getting  there.  But  this  not 
being  possible,  she  sat  down  on  the  corner  of  the  bed 
and  gave  way  to  dreams.  Even  there  was  a  certain  joy 
in  prolonging  anticipation  of  rest,  knowing  that  she  had 
eight  hours'  sleep  in  front  of  her. 

Bob  Baxter  went  out  in  the  morning  on  his  car,  bound 
for  the  town  of  Newtonsmith,  telling  Maureen  that  if  he 
were  late  in  returning  that  night  she  was  on  no  ac- 
count to  sit  up  and  wait  for  him.  Master  and  servant 
were  the  only  occupants  of  this  steading,  and  some  six 
weeks  had  now  passed  since  sentence  was  passed  on  Mrs. 
Thornton. 

Now  all  alone  in  the  house,  Maureen  decided  to  turn  into 
bed.  Night  passes  quickly  for  the  limb-wearied  who  fall 
asleep  night  after  night  from  the  same  job  and  awake  to 
the  same  job  morning  after  morning.  Farm  labor  is 
monotonous,  especially  for  those  who  have  no  interest  in 
the  farm  beyond  the  wages  paid  them  at  the  heel  of  the 
year.  When  the  corn  browns,  the  servant  says :  ' '  To-mor- 
row or  the  day  after  I  cut  it,  and  that  is  not  an  easy 
job!"  or  says,  when  the  bogland  dries  and  the  straight 
turf  curls  on  the  spread  field:  "I'll  have  to  stack  them 
soon,  and  that  is  sore  on  the  fingers." 

But  the  farmer's  outlook  is  somewhat  different.  The 
spread  of  land,  hedged,  ditched,  fenced  and  watered,  em- 
braces in  it  a  past  and  a  future.  It  belonged  to  his  father 
and  will,  when  the  time  comes,  belong  to  his  sons.  Every 
bank  and  brae  breathes  a  tradition  of  days  gone  and  a 
hope  of  days  coming.  To  the  servant  it  is  different,  mean- 


196  MAUREEN 

ing  tenure  on  sufferance  for  a  season,  sweat,  weariness 
and  longings.  It  is  a  place,  but  not  a  home. 

This  Maureen  felt  and  felt  acutely,  when  a  moment  was 
given  her  to  rest,  to  straighten  her  back  and  to  think.  All 
day  long  under  the  crawling  sun  she  worked,  longing  for 
the  night  and  sleep ;  at  night  she  feared  the  speedy  return 
of  the  morning.  She  had  no  friend,  no  one  to  write  her 
a  letter  asking  how  she  was  getting  on,  no  one  to  write  to. 
Her  mind  was  gradually  becoming  torpid,  her  face  set 
with  that  hard  cast  which  comes  to.  features  that  have 
forgotten  how  to  smile. 

In  the  beginning  when  she  came  to  the  place  she  would 
sing  a  song  at  the  milking  in  the  morning  and  at  night 
she  would  sit  for  a  while  in  her  room  before  going  to  bed 
and  by  candle  light  write  long  letters  on  scraps  of  paper. 
But  these  letters  she  tore  up  when  finished,  not  knowing 
any  one  to  send  them  to.  That  was  six  weeks  ago.  Now 
the  girl  neither  sang  nor  wrote.  When  her  day's  work 
came  to  an  end,  a  torpor  seemed  to  seize  her  limbs  and 
her  brain,  and  she  went  to  bed.  Once  or  twice,  or  was  it 
three  times,  she  awoke  in  the  morning  and  found  herself 
lying  on  the  bed  still  clothed  as  she  had  left  her  work  on 
the  night  before.  Maureen  had  then  sat  down  on  the  bed 
and  without  undressing  had  fallen  asleep. 

"Well,  I  can't  sleep  like  that  the  night,"  she  said,  her 
elbow  on  the  pillow,  her  brown  head  resting  on  her  hand 
and  her  eyes  heavy  with  sleep.  Eising  to  her  feet,  she 
stretched  her  arms  over  her  shoulders  and  yawned. 

' '  I  'd  better  light  the  candle, ' '  she  mumbled  and  searched 
on  the  floor  near  the  door.  Presently  a  match  was  struck 
which  flared  up  in  a  long,  spluttering  flame.  This  she 
applied  to  a  candle  stuck  in  the  neck  of  a  bottle.  The 
candle  glimmered  feebly,  unable  to  pierce  the  dark  corners 
of  the  room.  In  addition  to  being  a  sleeping-chamber,  til* 
apartment  was  a  lumber-room  for  various  odds  and  ends, 
graips,  forks,  coils  of  ropes,  twisters,  spades  and  shovels. 
Near  the  door  was  the  bed,  with  ticking  of  straw  in  pal- 
liasse and  pillow,  both  wearing  thin  and  allowing  particles 
of  the  stuffing  to  fall  out  on  the  floor.  At  the  foot  of  the 


MRS.  THORNTON  197 

bed  lay  a  blanket,  white  at  one  time,  but  now  turning  a 
dark  brown. 

Maureen  took  the  bottle  from  the  door  and  placed  it  in 
the  center  of  the  room  and  began  undressing.  She  took 
off  her  boots  and  stockings,  sitting  on  the  floor  as  she  did 
so.  Her  feet  so  white  looked  dainty  and  childish,  despite 
the  mire  in  which  they  trolloped  all  the  day.  She  took  off 
her  blouse  and  gazed  at  her  arms,  nut-brown  from  finger- 
tip to  elbow  and  lustrous  as  white  silk  from  elbow  to  shoul- 
der. Unloosening  her  brown  hair  and  allowing  it  to  fall 
in  waves  over  her  shoulder,  she  knelt  by  the  bedside, 
pressed  her  head  against  the  mattress  and  said  her  prayers. 

She  said  her  prayers  in  Irish,  every  word  spreading  out 
from  the  speaker  and  embracing  some  thought  that  had 
little  to  do  with  the  prayer,  some  memory  of  the  time  that 
had  passed  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and  her  mother  taught 
her  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Hail  Mary  away  home  in 
the  parish  of  Dungarrow.  Maureen  prayed  to  God  with 
Cathal  in  her  mind ;  to  the  Virgin,  her  mind  teeming  with 
memories  of  her  own  mother. 

She  could  see  her  as  of  old,  sitting  by  the  fire,  her  cloud 
over  her  head  and  her  bright  needles  gleaming  in  the  lamp* 
light  as  she  knitted  a  stocking.  All  day  long  Maureen 
had  worked  hard,  giving  little  thought  to  the  past;  weary 
labor  that  wrings  the  sweat  from  the  brow  dries  the  tears 
in  the  eyes;  the  travail  of  the  body  dulls  the  emotion  of 
the  soul.  But  now  when  a  moment 's  respite  from  the  labor 
of  her  hands  allowed  time  for  thought,  her  soul  teemed 
with  anguish ;  she  pressed  her  little  brown  hands  together 
and  wept. 

"Mother,  I'm  not  forgettin'  ye!"  she  sobbed  in  a  feeble 
voice  that  floated  like  a  whisper  into  the  gloom.  "Ye 're 
with  me  always  in  me  mind,  mother.  Always,  always!" 

Thought  ebbed  away  from  the  girl,  passing  into  every- 
thing around  her.  The  reflection  of  the  candle  on  the  wall 
danced  in  a  thousand  little  ripples  of  light.  Her  soul  went 
out  and  became  part  of  the  radiance ;  the  girl  went  with  it ; 
she  swayed  and  danced  in  delirious  fancy,  nodded,  courte- 
sied,  sank  into  a  hollow  of  bliss  and  splendor,  strove  to 


198  MAUREEN 

rise  again,  but  being  unable  to  do  so,  the  girl  sank  into  an 
easy  and  blissful  slumber. 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  feeling  that  something  terrible 
was  about  to  happen.  The  candle  was  still  flaring  weakly, 
and  the  dim  glimmering  played  on  the  wall  over  the  bed. 
A  cold  wind  blew  from  somewhere  chilling  her  arms  and 
legs.  She  rose  shivering,  conscious  that  something  foreign 
was  near,  and  turned  round,  to  see  Bob  Baxter,  who  was 
in  the  room  behind  her. 

"What  are  you  wantin'  here?"  she  gasped,  overcome 
with  fright  and  shame.  With  her  shoulder  naked,  her 
chemise  open  at  the  breast,  she  felt  as  if  she  would  sink 
through  the  floor.  The  blood  mantled  her  face  and  pulsed 
through  her  temples  as  if  to  burst  the  veins  that  confined  it. 

* '  If  you  want  me  to  do  anything,  I  '11  be  ready  in  a  minit, 
but  leave  the  room,"  she  cried  piteously,  pulling  the  front 
of  her  chemise  together. 

"Maureen,  wee  Maureen !"  said  the  man  in  a  thick  voice, 
his  small  eyes  blinking  and  his  loose  lower  lip  hanging  as 
if  suspended  from  a  string.  He  stood  in  the  center  of 
the  apartment,  which,  being  a  very  small  one,  placed  him 
within  arm's  reach  of  Maureen.  The  whole  atmosphere 
of  the  place  was  impregnated  with  the  smell  of  souring 
whisky. 

"Maureen,  Maureen!"  he  went  on,  in  the  same  drunken 
voice.  ' '  Wee  Maureen,  the  Donegal !  That 's  what  I  want ! 
Wee  Maureen." 

The  girl  lifted  the  blanket  from  the  bed,  and  wrapped 
it  round  her  shoulder.  Then  she  reached  for  her  boots. 

"It's  yer  supper  that  ye 're  wantin',"  she  said.  "I'll 
make  it  for  ye  when  I  get  my  boots  on. ' ' 

"Supper,"  said  Baxter,  rolling  his  head  and  wrinkling 
his  brows.  "Supper.  I  don't  want  supper.  I  want  Mau- 
reen, wee  Maureen,  the  Donegal!" 

"Well,  I'm  here,"  said  Maureen,  frightened,  but  feeling 
that  it  was  best  to  humor  the  man.  "Is  it  supper  that 
ye 're  wantin'?" 

"I  don't  want  supper,"  he  repeated.  "Curses  on  sup- 
per! I  want  Maureen,  wee  Maureen,  the  Donegal.  Not 


MRS.  THORNTON  199 

in  bed  and  it's  two  o'clock  in  the  mornin*.  Time  to  get 
up.  Every  night,  every  night,  Maureen.  D'you  sleep 
like  that  every  night,  Maureen!" 

The  girl  fixed  a  horrified  stare  on  the  man,  her  eyes 
wide  open  and  thoughts  of  something  horrid  surging 
through  her  mind.  If  she  could  only  get  past  the  man 
and  out  she  could  run  away.  But  that  was  impossible; 
he  stood  between  her  and  the  door,  a  hideous  smile,  brutal 
and  cunning,  the  smile  of  a  bird  of  prey  thickening  his 
besotted  features. 

"What  do  you  want  in  here,  Mr.  Baxter?"  cried  Mau- 
reen in  a  strange,  strangled  voice,  as  if  some  one  had 
clutched  her  throat.  "Go  away  at  once.  Go  away.  It's 
not  yer  place  to  be  in  here  at  all." 

She  drew  herself  back  to  the  bed,  tightened  the  shawl 
round  her  shoulder  and  faced  the  man,  looking  like  some 
beautiful  animal  at  bay.  Her  hair,  taking  on  a  silken 
sheen  in  every  tress,  swelling  out  here  in  a  brilliant  luster 
and  sinking  down  there  in  the  dim  satiny  fold  of  a  curl, 
fell  over  her  white  neck  and  hung  in  wavy  lines  over  her 
cheeks  and  brow. 

"Little  Maureen!  Maureen  the  Donegal!"  articulated 
the  man,  his  voice  choking  as  if  he  were  swallowing  some- 
thing, his  small,  flesh-padded  eyes  glinting  with  a  gleam 
of  brutal  animal  passion.  "Not  in  bed,  Maureen,  not  in 
bed,  Maureen,  ye  little  Donegal." 

He  groped  out  for  her  as  if  he  were  blind,  and  one  hand 
fumbled  at  her  shawl  while  the  other  pressed  its  fingers 
through  her  hanging  hair.  Maureen  sank  on  the  bed, 
ducked  quickly  as  he  tried  to  clutch  her,  and  got  to  the 
floor  again. 

"Ah,  Maureen,  you're  cute,"  he  said  with  a  leer,  straight- 
ening himself  sharply  and  getting  between  the  girl  and 
the  door.  "Ah,  Maureen.  Thought  I  was  drunk,  did  you! 
Thought  you'd  play  tricks  with  me,  Donegal.  I  have  you 
here.  Look  here,  Maureen,  I  don't  mean  any  harm.  I'm 
all  alone  in  the  world  and  you're  all  on  your  own.  Don't 
be  angry  with  me,  Maureen.  Just  come  here  and  sit  down, 
or  better  get  into  bed  .  .  ." 


200  MAUREEN 

The  candle  flame  danced  evilly  as  it  swooned  and  recov- 
ered its  presence  on  the  lip  of  the  bottle.  It  was  dying, 
going  out,  and  presently  the  room  would  be  in  darkness. 
This  thought  surged  up  in  the  brain  of  the  girl.  She  fixed 
a  terrified  look  on  the  man,  at  the  mighty  form  glowering 
large  in  the  dim  light,  and  its  shadow,  big  and  inconceiv- 
ably monstrous,  glooming  the  wall  at  his  back.  Just  at  the 
same  moment,  in  the  maze  of  horror,  Maureen  saw  some- 
thing glitter  like  a  star  on  the  wall  to  her  left.  It  was 
the  large  shawing  knife  which  she  had  used  in  the  turnip 
field  that  day.  Bending  on  the  weapon  as  a  hawk  swoops 
on  a  lark  she  caught  the  haft  in  her  hand  and  slipped  it 
from  the  cleek  on  which  it  hung. 

"Mr.  Baxter,"  said  Maureen,  her  eyes  narrowing  to  a 
point  and  speaking  through  her  set  teeth,  "if  you  don't 
get  out  iv  the  room  at  once,  I'll  drive  this  right  through 
you." 

Grinding  his  black  uneven  teeth  as  if  chewing  coal,  he 
stepped  back  a  pace,  touched  the  door  with  his  back  and 
stood  stock-still  facing  the  girl,  shades  of  uneasiness,  dis- 
comfiture and  uncertainty  darkening  his  face. 

"Maureen,  I  didn't  mean  what  you  think,"  he  stam- 
mered. "  Twas  the  drink  that  got  to  my  head." 

"Then  leave  me  to  meself  now,"  said  the  girl,  leaning 
towards  him,  her  little  knuckles  white  as  she  gripped  the 
knife  haft,  her  eyes  round  and  flashing.  "Go  out  iv  the 
room  at  once  and  leave  me  be." 

"Aye,  leave  you!"  said  the  man  in  a  peculiar,  deliberate 
tone  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door-knob.  "But  you're 
so  nice  and  all  alone,  too.  Put  down  the  knife,  Maureen, 
and  listen." 

"There's  nothin'  that  I  want  to  hear  from  ye,  Mr.  Bax- 
ter, after  what  ye've  done,"  said  Maureen,  feeling  as  if 
something  in  her  head  was  being  drawn  taut  and  was  on 
the  point  of  breaking.  She  held  out  a  limp,  beseeching 
hand  to  her  master.  "Leave  me  be,"  she  begged  piteously. 
"It's  not  right,  Mr.  Baxter.  Leave  me  to  meself!" 

"But  you'll  not  chase  me  out,  Maureen,"  he  asked  in  a 
hoarse  voice.  "I'll  leave  you  be  now,  if  you  promise  that 


MRS.  THORNTON  201 

ye '11  not  always  put  me  away.  Will  you  promise,  Mau- 
reen?" 

"I  promise,"  said  the  girl.  "Some  other  time,  but  not 
now. ' ' 

"Good  night  then,  Maureen,"  said  the  man,  drawing 
the  door  open.  "Some  other  time,  Maureen.  Mind  that; 
it's  a  promise." 

She  did  not  reply.  The  candle  gave  a  last  faint  flicker 
and  died.  Maureen  rushed  to  the  door,  still  holding  the 
shawing  knife,  and  drew  the  bolt.  Then  shivering  and 
sobbing  she  knelt  down  and  said  a  prayer,  her  ears  open 
to  the  noise  made  by  the  staggering  man  in  an  adjacent 
bedroom. 

For  a  long  time  Maureen  remained  in  this  attitude  like 
a  beaten  animal  afraid  that  the  slightest  movement  may 
bring  back  the  punishment  that  is  over  for  the  moment. 
When  she  got  to  her  feet,  she  groped  in  the  darkness  for 
her  check  kerchief,  spread  it  out  on  the  floor  and  tied  her 
few  articles  of  clothing  in  it. 

When  the  first  gray  light  of  the  dawn  streamed  through 
the  window,  she  unbarred  the  door  silently  and  went  into 
the  kitchen,  her  bundle  under  her  arm  and  her  shawl 
wrapped  round  her  shoulders.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be 
heard ;  the  place  was  in  absolute  stillness.  The  girl  opened 
the  door,  shut  it  quietly  behind  her  and  was  in  the  stead- 
ing yard. 

Maureen 's  second  term  of  service  was  at  an  end. 


Maureen,  the  proud,  radiant,  inaccessible  Maureen,  took 
to  the  road  again,  tired  and  penniless,  but  nevertheless 
filled  with  that  sense  of  independence  which  comes  to  those 
who  have  performed  an  act  that  is  noble  and  honorable. 
The  pure  girl  had  defended  her  honor,  protected  herself 
against  the  advances  of  her  master.  The  innate  delicacy 
common  to  her  race,  the  sure  flame  of  undying  desire,  its 
gratification  renounced  because  of  a  promise  given  and  the 
.religious  faith  that  gleamed  steadily  in  a  heart  stricken 


202  MAUREEN 

with  the  misfortune  of  existence,  armed  Maureen  against 
the  man,  and  added  strength  to  her  inherent  resolves.  On 
the  previous  night  she  would  have  murdered  the  man, 
sinned,  if  any  extreme  taken  to  protect  that  which  was 
her  soul,  her  honor,  the  pinnacle  on  which  she  stood,  could 
be  catalogued  in  the  category  of  sin.  Now  as  she  recalled 
the  incidents  of  the  night  her  own  memory  had  nothing  to 
call  forth  in  impeachment  of  her  action.  To  Maureen  vir- 
tue had  its  own  discretion,  innate  purity  its  own  bulwark, 
frankness  its  own  method  of  thwarting  its  enemy's  flight. 

But  even  as  she  had  shrunk  on  the  previous  night  from 
the  embraces  of  the  drunken  man,  she  now  shrank  from 
the  remembrance  of  them.  As  she  walked  along  her  mother 
seemed  to  be  very  near  her,  the  stay  of  salvation  and  the 
plank  to  which  she  could  cling  in  the  deadly  shipwreck  of 
circumstance. 

All  the  pride  of  her  nature  rose  up  within  her  as  she 
paced  along  the  road,  barefooted,  her  feet  scratched  and 
sore,  her  little  check  bundle  under  her  arm.  But  she  did 
not  feel  weary ;  a  power  peculiar  to  the  innocent  and  good 
heartened  her,  toning  her  spirit  to  the  highest  pitch,  brac- 
ing the  old,  calm  purposes,  counseling  endurance  when  the 
load  lay  heavy,  and  resignation  when  troubles  beat  fiercely 
against  her. 

She  skirted  a  village,  walking  through  a  miry  field,  and 
struck  the  road  further  along.  The  causeway  was  very 
dry,  littered  with  a  fine  white  gravel  which  the  cold  hard 
wind  blew  across  the  countryside  and  whisked  against 
Maureen's  face.  It  was  now  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

She  had  no  idea  where  she  was  bound  for,  but  she  wanted 
to  find  a  place  where  she  would  be  taken  on  as  a  servant. 
She  was  well  aware  that  at  this  season  of  the  year  the 
demand  for  servants  was  small.  Coming  as  it  did  between 
the  fairs  the  farmers  would  have  their  staffs,  and  even 
now  those  taken  for  the  hay  and  harvest  season  were  not 
busily  engaged.  The  back  of  the  working  season  was 
broken,  the  crops  were  for  the  most  part  saved,  the  hag- 
gards stocked  and  the  yield  of  the  potato  fields  binned  and 
pitted. 


MRS.  THORNTON  203 

Through  this  country  where  no  prospects  fronted  her, 
Maureen  pursued  her  way,  on,  on,  somewhere,  until  she 
could  find  a  haven  and  refuge.  It  all  rested  with  Him 
and  He  would  not  forsake  her  in  the  hour  of  stress  and 
tribulation. 

Now  and  again  she  stopped,  put  her  hand  in  her  bosom 
and  pressed  the  scapular  which  had  been  given  her  months 
before.  In  some  way  this  gave  her  hope  for  the  future,  a 
confidence  in  herself  and  trust  in  the  ultimate  attain- 
ment of  all  that  her  heart  desired,  safety,  surety,  and  a 
home. 

At  noon  she  breasted  the  summit  of  a  hill.  Here  she 
sat  down  and  looked  at  the  country  which  lay  around  her. 
Behind  were  the  woods,  plantations  and  homes  of  a  rich, 
lush  country  which  she  had  just  passed  through.  A  river, 
heavy-bosomed  and  quiet,  slept  as  it  seemed  in  its  bed, 
too  lazy  to  move,  to  sparkle  or  sing.  To  the  prospect  this 
supine  belt  of  water  added  a  tone  of  stateliness  and  aloof- 
ness. As  Maureen  looked  at  it,  she  shuddered  as  if  an 
icy  hand  had  suddenly  laid  itself  on  her  heart. 

She  turned  to  the  road  in  front  of  her  that  led  down  into 
a  fertile  valley  where  the  corn  was  stacked  in  good,  com- 
fortable, warm  heaps  and  gave  a  touch  of  something  rest- 
ful and  serene  to  the  country.  Here,  near  at  hand,  was  a 
limewashed  cottage,  snugly  thatched,  with  a  curl  of  smoke 
rising  from  its  chimney.  Farther  along  could  be  seen  the 
road  twisting  round  a  spinney,  rising  to  a  lift  in  the  braes, 
showing  straight  and  white  in  places,  again  twisting  in  a 
sinuous  line,  dipping  and  disappearing,  only  to  rise  into 
view  again  farther  along.  Finally  away  in  the  far  dis- 
tance it  lost  itself  altogether  like  a  stream  in  the  sand. 
A  row  of  dark  hills  whose  contour  lined  a  pale  sky  closed 
the  perspective. 

"The  hills,"  said  Maureen,  with  a  sigh.  "They're  like 
Donegal,  so  snug  and  so  warm."  She  was  not  in  reality 
thinking  of  the  hills  but  of  the  glens  which  they  hid,  the 
homes  and  the  people  whom  she  knew. 

She  got  to  her  feet  again  and  went  towards  the  cottage 
at  the  foot  of  the  slope. 


204  MAUREEN 

A  woman  was  standing  at  the  door  shaking  a  checked 
petticoat  in  the  breeze. 

"Well,  and  who  are  you  at  all?"  she  asked  as  Maureen 
came  abreast.  A  housekeeper  finding  a  burglar  in  his 
bedroom  might  address  him  in  a  similar  manner. 

"I'm  a  Donegal  girl,  dacent  woman,"  said  Maureen. 

She  hung  the  petticoat  in  the  crook  of  her  arm,  rubbed 
her  chin  with  a  ridgy  and  gnarry  hand,  dry  as  an  ancient 
turf,  and  stared  at  the  girl. 

"Well,  I  thought  be  the  first  look  at  ye  that  ye  were 
a  poor  woman  or  worse  than  that,  a  tinker,"  she  said. 
"And  ye 're  a  Donegal?" 

' '  I  am, ' '  said  Maureen. 

"Where  from?" 

"Dungarrow." 

"Whereabouts  there?" 

"Meenaroodagh,"  said  Maureen,  hope  filling  her  heart, 
for  the  woman  spoke  as  if  she  knew  the  place. 

"Indeed  then,"  said  the  woman.  "I  come  from  near 
there  meself,  but  I  don't  know  ye.  My  name  afore  I  got 
married  on  a  man  was  Norah  Beeragh.  And  yer  own  name 
is?" 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  was  the  reply.  Maureen  had 
often  heard  of  Norah,  the  daughter  of  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh, 
but  had  never  seen  her.  Norah  had  gone  away  beyond 
the  mountains  years  ago,  got  married  and  had  never  re- 
turned home  since  then. 

"So  you're  Maureen  O'Malley,"  said  Norah,  looking 
the  girl  up  and  down  with  sharp,  shifty  eyes.  "Just  the 
same  in  the  turn  iv  the  face  and  the  way  you  hold  your 
shoulders,"  she  went  on,  probably  tracing  a  resemblance 
between  Maureen  and  her  mother.  "Just  the  very  cut  of 
yer  mother,  that  I  knew  so  well  and  me  wee,"  she  said. 
"And  ye '11  be  full  iv  money  now?"  she  questioned. 

"I'm  lookin'  for  a  job,"  said  Maureen.  "And  I  haven't 
one  penny  piece." 

"Tell  me  that!"  said  the  woman  with  a  dry,  sharp 
laugh. 

"It's  true,"  said  Maureen. 


MRS.  THORNTON  205 

"Well,  ye  weren't  long  in  spendin'  what  ye  got,"  said 
Norah.  "And  it  would  be  a  good  penny  and  all  from  what 
they  say. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  at  all  what  ye 're  manin',"  said  Maureen, 
a  puzzled  look  showing  on  her  face. 

"Don't  know  what  I  mane  and  you  all  in  the  papers!" 

"In  the  papers,"  Maureen  exclaimed,  turning  white. 
"What  am  I  in  the  papers  for?" 

"Well,  you're  the  one  to  ask  me  that ! "  said  Norah  curtly, 
a  certain  tone  of  distrust  and  suspicion  toning  her  voice. 
"And  after  makin'  good  money  out  iv  it  too." 

"What  am  I  in  the  papers  for?"  Maureen  asked  again. 
"I  don't  know  what  ye 're  manin'  at  all." 

"  'Twas  because  ye 're  the  informer  and  got  that  woman 
Thornton  into  jail  because  ye  told  on  her,"  said  Norah. 
"It's  a  way  iv  makin'  money  iv  course,  but  it's  not  to  the 
likin'  iv  all  and  every  one.  I  wouldn't  sink  meself  to  the 
doin'  iv  it." 

"But  it  was  for  the  childre,"  Maureen  protested.  "The 
poor  things  were  gettin'  starved  and  them  so  cold  that  it 
would  break  the  heart  iv  a  stone  to  keep  lookin'  at  them." 

"And  ye  got  yerself  in  the  papers,"  said  Norah,  sus- 
picion at  an  unwonted  happening  filling  her  voice. 

The  world  outside  her  own  was  one  of  vagueness  and 
mystery ;  the  fact  of  appearing  in  the  papers  augured  some- 
thing dark  and  doubtful,  guilt,  error  and  crime.  Dun- 
garrow  itself  got  into  the  papers  now  and  again,  but  al- 
ways in  a  dark  light,  murder,  death,  theft.  When  these 
events  occurred  and  the  law  took  its  cumbrous  course, 
papers  were  bought,  eagerly  read  and  discussed,  weighed 
in  the  parish  gatherings,  which  having  their  own  code  of 
morality  came  to  an  ultimate  abstract  conclusion  that 
nothing  good  will  ever  come  of  those  who  get  into  the  pa- 
pers. Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  was  adamant  in  this  belief; 
Norah  when  young  and  malleable  accepted  it,  unconsciously 
and  without  question,  as  the  browning  corn  accepts  the 
tone  of  autumn.  Even  now  with  outlook  contained  and 
thought  untraveled,  she  still  clung  to  an  ancient  fixity  of 
values  when  the  subject  of  papers  came  before  her.  Be- 


206  MAUREEN 

sides,  was  not  Maureen  the  daughter  of  Kathleen  0 'Mai- 
ley,  a  girl  base  begotten  who  judged  by  accident  of  birth 
was  fit  for  any  misdemeanor?  That  she  should  be  in  the 
papers  was  something  which  might  be  expected. 

"Well,  and  if  I  did  get  in  the  papers  there's  nothin'  to 
be  ashamed  iv  by  that,"  said  Maureen  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

"No,  nothin'  at  all,  if  ye  look  at  it  in  that  way,"  said 
Norah  in  a  tone  of  scornful  superiority  that  was  in  a 
measure  pleasant  because  it  showed  the  woman's  ability 
to  rise  above  things  that  would  be  talked  of  all  over  the 
world.  "It's  the  way  ye  look  at  it  that  makes  the  differ- 
ence. And  now  where  are  ye  for  at  all?"  she  inquired 
curiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maureen  helplessly.  "Keep  walk- 
in'  till  I  can  get  a  job." 

"And  far  enough  that'll  be,"  said  Norah  cruelly.  "If 
people  know  ye  for  what  ye  are,  God  help  ye.  They're  not 
goin'  to  give  ye  board  and  money  if  ye '11  be  tellin'  on  them 
when  their  back's  turned  on  ye." 

A  moment  ago  Maureen  longed  for  her  own  townland, 
or  at  least  for  the  sight  of  a  person  from  that  arm  of  the 
world.  This  was  suddenly  granted  her,  but  now,  her  heart 
swelling  with  rage  and  resentment,  she  looked  Norah  Bee- 
ragh  between  the  eyes. 

"God  forbid  that  I'd  ever  ask  anything  from  the  like 
iv  yerself,  Norah  Beeragh,"  she  said.  "If  Dungarrow 
people  were  all  like  you,  I'd  be  pleased  never  to  see  one 
of  them  again." 

Norah  was  really  in  her  way  a  generous  and  big-hearted 
woman,  ready  to  do  a  kindness  even  to  Maureen  0  'Malley, 
but  she  felt  that  this  kindness  would  not  be  appreciated 
at  its  just  value  if  some  opprobrium  was  not  cast  on  its 
recipient  before  given.  In  fact  if  Maureen  showed  that 
she  realized  her  own  unworthiness  as  well  as  the  superiority 
of  Norah  Beeragh,  Norah  would  have  taken  her  into  her 
house  and  treated  her  well,  hoping  of  course  that  the  girl 
would  feel  very  kindly  towards  her  as  a  generous  person. 
A  certain  fact  should  be  mentioned  here,  as  it  may  have 


MES.  THORNTON  207 

something  to  do  with  Norah  Beeragh 's  bearing  at  the 
moment.  When  a  young  girl,  Norah  Beeragh  and  Kathleen 
O'Malley  were  rivals  on  many  a  dancing  floor,  but  Kath- 
leen always  came  off  victorious.  In  fact  it  was  said  that 
Norah,  though  a  comely  girl,  had  nothing  more  to  her 
glory  than  the  first  pick  of  Kathleen  O'Malley 's  leavings. 
Women  never  forget  facts  like  these. 

"And  thank  God  that  all  the  people  from  Dungarrow  are 
not  like  you,  Maureen  O'Malley,"  Norah  returned  spite- 
fully. "Now  ye 're  off  and  away,  but  what  ye 're  up  to  is 
sure  not  to  be  good." 

Maureen,  holding  her  head  high,  left  the  irate  woman. 
Once  or  twice  she  looked  back  impenitently,  not  a  little 
elated  at  what  she  had  said.  In  fact  she  was  glad  at  what 
she  had  done.  She  had  not  asked  anything  from  the  woman. 
She  was  as  good  as  Norah,  maybe  better,  if  it  went  to  that. 
Maureen  had  not  a  penny,  but  that  and  all  she  owed  no- 
body anything.  She  was  beholden  to  no  one.  People  were 
cruel  when  they  might  be  kind.  It  costs  nothing  to  be  kind. 
She  looked  back  again,  still  impenitent,  but  when  she  saw 
that  a  turn  of  the  road  cut  her  off  from  the  house  of 
Norah  Beeragh,  she  sat  down,  overcome,  and  started  cry- 
ing. 

Late  in  the  evening  she  reached  the  mouth  of  a  valley 
that  ran  into  the  hilly  country.  On  the  braes  which  rose 
from  the  road  on  either  side  she  saw  houses,  thatched  and 
limewashed,  running  in  straggly  lines  almost  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  She  rested  on  a  dyke  and  took  in  the 
scene  in  front  of  her,  feeling  somehow  that  here  was  a 
place  where  refuge  and  rest  would  be  hers.  It  looked  in  a 
measure  like  a  glen  of  the  home  country.  A  feeling  of 
safety  welled  up  in  her  being,  giving  her  a  certain  happi- 
ness which  had  not  been  hers  for  many  a  long  day. 

A  noise  from  the  road  behind  attracted  her  attention, 
and  she  saw  a  cart  coming  towards  her,  a  man  sitting  on 
the  front  board,  his  coat  off  and  his  hat  pulled  down  well 
over  his  head. 

"Good  evenin'  to  ye,  decent  girl,"  he  said,  stopping  his 
horse  when  he  came  abreast  and  looking  at  Maureen.  He 


208  MAUREEN 

was  a  tall  man,  squarely  built  despite  his  height,  with  a 
short  neck  and  a  low  forehead.  His  cheeks  were  brown 
as  old  copper,  a  drooping  mustache  hid  his  mouth;  his 
eyes,  bright  and  very  clear,  denoted  kindness. 

"Good  evenin',  sir,"  said  Maureen. 

"Are  ye  goin'  my  way  at  all?"  asked  the  man,  pulling 
the  reins  tightly  to  take  the  horse  back  from  the  side  of 
the  road  where  it  edged  in  to  crop  the  hedgerows.  "If  ye 
are,  get  up  here  and  I  '11  give  ye  a  bit  iv  a  ride. ' ' 

"Thank  ye,  kindly,  sir,"  said  Maureen,  "but  I  don't 
know  where  I  'm  goin '  to  at  all. ' '  , 

"Have  ye  left  yer  place?"  asked  the  man. 

"I  have  that,"  said  Maureen.  "I  didn't  like  it  at  all, 
and  now  I'm  out  iv  it." 

"Was  it  near-by  here  that  ye  were?"  asked  the  driver. 

"More  than  a  day's  walk  away,"  said  the  girl.  "Or 
more  anyway  than  a  person  would  care  to  walk  in  a  day, 
for  I've  been  on  me  feet  since  the  shriek  iv  dawn." 

"Walkin'  all  the  time?" 

"All  the  time." 

"And  what  do  ye  intend  to  do?"  asked  the  man  in  a 
curious  voice.  "Nobody's  wantin'  people  to  work  on  their 
land  now  as  far  as  I  know.  The  crops  are  in,  and  why 
shouldn't  they  be  with  the  good  weather  that  God  has 
sent  us  this  year?  And  where  will  ye  be  puttin'  up  for 
the  night  with  not  a  place  to  go  to?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maureen  simply. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  either,"  said  the  man  in  serious 
tones,  as  if  Maureen  had  asked  him  his  opinion  of  her 
plight  and  the  best  means  of  extricating  herself.  In  fact 
he  spoke  as  if  one  point  was  clear  anyway,  that  he  must 
help  the  girl  by  every  means  in  his  power. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  at  all,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  giving  the  reins  a  sharp  tug  as  if  the  horse  was 
in  some  way  responsible  for  Maureen's  troubles.  "I  don't 
know,  but  up  on  the  cart  behind  me  with  ye  and  we  '11  have 
a  talk  about  it." 

He  lowered  the  tailboard  and  helped  Maureen  to  mount. 


MRS.  THORNTON  209 

Then  he  handed  her  a  few  bags  which  were  lying  on  the 
floor  of  the  cart. 

"Sit  on  these  and  it'll  be  aisier  for  ye,"  he  said. 
"There's  a  bad  road  in  front  iv  us  over  Corngarrow,  for 
it's  hilly  and  stony  with  little  or  no  footin'  for  a  horse 
be  day  let  alone  be  night,  and  it  now  getting  dark  on  it." 

He  sat  down,  tied  the  reins  round  the  thill  of  the  cart, 
and  lit  his  pipe. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  as  a  sort  of  preliminary  sigh. 
"And  it  was  the  grand  day.  I've  been  to  Omagh  and 
back,  and  where  have  ye  come  from?" 

"Newtonsmith,"  said  the  girl. 

"And  tramped  all  the  way?"  he  ejaculated. 

' '  All  the  way, ' '  Maureen  replied.    "  It 's  far,  isn  't  it  ?  " 

"Far,"  said  the  man  with  a  mighty  laugh.  "If  your 
own  feet  can't  tell  the  far  it  is,  it's  more  than  I  can  do 
with  me  tongue.  It's  twenty-five  miles,  Irish.  I  know 
the  country  well  enough  and  I'm  not  going  to  hear  any 
one  say  that  it's  less  than  twenty-five  miles,  Irish.  D-tui- 
gean  thi  Gaelig?" 

t(D-tuigen,"  Maureen  replied. 

"So  you're  Donegal,"  said  the  man,  assured  of  this  by 
the  girl's  knowledge  of  Irish  and  her  way  of  speaking 
English. 

"That  I  am,"  said  the  girl. 

"And  yer  name  will  be?" 

"Norah  Cassidy,"  said  Maureen,  seeking  security  from 
the  papers  which  might  even  travel  this  far  in  a  lie. 

"Well,  my  name's  McKenna,"  said  the  man,  feeling  that 
he  should  show  his  courtesy  by  a  return  of  confidence. 
"I'm  a  married  man  and  a  farmer.  I  have  a  Donegal  girl 
in  my  employ  now,  and  it's  more  than  one  iv  them  that 
I've  had.  And  good  workers  they  are  and  they  save  their 
money  and  send  it  home  like  decent  cubs  to  their  fathers 
and  mothers.  Now,"  he  said,  feeling  that  he  might  ven- 
ture another  question,  "now,  is  your  father  and  mother 
livin'?" 

"Dead,  God  rest  them,"  said  Maureen. 


210  MAUREEN 

"And  you've  brothers  and  sisters?" 

"Not  a  one,"  said  Maureen. 

"Ah!  dear  me!"  said  the  man.  "It's  hard  to  be  with- 
out a  friend  in  the  world  at  all.  And  what  was  the  reason 
ye  left  your  last  place?" 

"I  didn't  like  them  that  were  there,"  said  Maureen. 

"Protestants?"  asked  the  man. 

"I  don't  think  that  he  was  one  thing  or  the  other,"  said 
Maureen.  "There  was  nobody  in  the  house  but  a  man, 
and  I  ran  away  from  him!" 

"Ah,  indeed !"  said  McKenna  with  a  nod  of  understand- 
ing. "There  are  men  like  that.  And  what  is  his  name 
at  all?" 

"Robert  Baxter!" 

"Ah!"  said  McKenna.  "I've  heard  iv  him,  a  man  that 
wants  to  get  his  neck  twisted  off  iv  him." 

"And  that  woman  about  that  district,  too,  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton," said  McKenna,  after  a  short  silence.  "Never  saw 
her,  did  you?" 

"I  saw  her,"  said  Maureen,  feeling  suddenly  warm, 
though  a  moment  before  she  shivered  with  cold. 

"She  was  a  bad  woman,"  said  McKenna.  "I  read  all 
about  her  in  the  papers  and  the  way  that  the  Donegal  girl 
showed  her  up.  Bully  on  the  girl!" 

That  morning  when  she  disclosed  the  fact  to  Norah  Bee- 
ragh'that  she  was  the  girl  in  Mrs.  Thornton's  employ, 
Maureen  was  charged  with  being  an  informer;  now  when 
her  action  came  in  for  approval  she  knew  that  in  claiming 
it  as  her  own  she  would  be  charged  as  a  liar.  She  was 
Maureen  OTMalley  and  not — not — 

Her  mind  groped  wildly  after  the  name  which  she  had 
falsely  given.  But  she  could  not  remember  it. 


WHEN  I  WAS  WEE 

'Twos  me  was  the  divil  when  I  was  wee, 
Full  iv  capers  and  up  for  fun, 
And  there  wasn't  one  in  the  parish  like  me% 
And  dear!  how  my  two  bare  feet  could  run 
When  I  was  wee! 

Fetch  or  fellow  iv  me  to  get 
Ye'd  wander  far  on  either  hand. 
But  that  and  all  ye'd  never  set 
Eyes  on  the  bate  iv  yer  own  townland, 
When  I  was  wee! 

Ah!  sharp  the  tip  iv  the  tongue  that's  old, 
And  white  the  laugh  when  the  lips  fall  in — 
It's  the  young  to  laugh  and  the  aged  to  scold, 
The  old  to  pray  and  the  young  to  sin, 
And  I   was  wee. 

And  ye  want  to  go  out  to  the  dance,  avic, 
As  if  ye  have  nothin'  else  to  do? 
And  me  the  poor  old  man  on  a  stick, 
And  once  I  could  step  on  the  floor  like  you 
When  I  was  wee! 


211 


CHAPTER   VI 

SEIN  FEINERS 


THE  time  was  late  evening  in  early  autumn,  time  for 
those  weary  from  one  day's  hard  work  and  with  a 
day's  heavy  work  facing  them  at  dawn  to  be  in  bed. 
The  weather  was  standing  good  in  Dungarrow,  the  turf 
Crinkling  on  the  spread-fields,  the  lush  meadows  calling  for 
the  sickle  and  the  heavy-eared  corn  turning  brown  on  the 
braes.  The  yield  of  the  year  promised  well  in  Meena- 
roodagh  and  Meenarood  and  in  all  the  townlands  of  Dun- 
garrow from  Crinnan  resting  on  the  hills  to  Drimeeney 
with  its  toes  in  Gweenora  Bay. 

But  ten  o'clock  of  this  evening  saw  light  in  the  home  of 
Condy  Heelagh,  the  cobbler,  and  a  number  of  the  neigh- 
bors were  in  there  sitting  on  chairs  and  forms,  their  faces 
dim  in  the  smoke  of  many  a  pipe.  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh 
was  there,  Cathal  Cassidy,  Mr.  Brogan,  Columb  Ruagh 
Keeran,  Corney  McKelvie,  the  son  of  Hannah  McKelvie. 
This  boy  had  been  in  the  English  Army  but  was  now  dis- 
charged a  victim  of  gas  poisoning  on  the  Somme. 

Little  had  been  changed  in  the  appointments  of  the 
house  since  the  memorable  evening  on  which  Mr.  Brogan 
visited  it  twenty  years  before.  An  ancient  fowling-piece, 
rusty  and  cobwebby,  which  stuck  between  rafters  and 
scraws  on  that  date  was  there  still,  but  under  it,  pinned 
to  the  wall,  was  something  of  newer  date,  which  told  of  a 
country  becoming  superbly  conscious  of  its  own  nationality 
and  its  own  soul.  New  kindling  was  thrown  on  a  dulled 
fire  and  the  kindling  took  flame.  Public  opinion  was 
moved.  The  people  saw  their  way  clear  to  something  great 

213 


214  MAUKEEN 

and  ultimate,  the  realization  of  an  end,  the  freedom  of 
their  country.  The  old  language  was  now  spoken  in  fair 
and  field,  the  feet  timed  to  an  ancient  measure  in  their 
national  dances.  The  Sein  Fein  movement  was  destined 
to  mark  a  great  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  ancient  race. 

Pinned  to  the  wall  under  the  fowling-piece  was  the 
photo  of  the  man,  James  Connoly,  who  gave  his  life  for 
an  ideal  in  the  Easter  rising  in  Dublin.  Under  the  photo 
was  a  trenchant  truth  scrawled  in  ink:  Murdered  by  a 
foreign  power  to  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy. 

Beneath  this  was  a  parody  on  a  poem  once  written  by 
T.  D.  Sullivan: 

"Freedom  is  a  holy  thing, 

For  so  our  gracious  rulers  say  — 

And  what  they  say  it's  me  to  sing 

In  quite  a  legal,  proper  way. 

They  praise  it  up  with  all  their  might 

And  praise  the  men  who  seek  it,  too, 

Provided  all  the  row  and  fight 

Is  out  in  Belgium.    Thiggin 


Peggy  Ribbig  sat  in  the  corner,  telling  stories  of  cows 
that  were  elf-shot,  of  churning  that  brought  no  butter, 
of  awlths  that  were  haunted  and  raths  sacred  to  the  gentle 
people.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  white  bonnet  with  a  frilled 
border;  her  supple  hands  with  the  black  finger-nails  and 
clay-lined  cuticles  busy  at  the  knitting.  She  rocked  to 
and  fro,  the  stool  beneath  her  creaking,  and  her  voice 
never  a  moment  still  flowed  steadily  out  with  her  stories. 

Thos-i  around  her  listened  attentively,  the  older  people 
nodding  approvingly  at  times,  while  the  young,  sitting  on 
the  hearth,  kept  looking  upwards,  their  mouths  a  little 
parted  and  their  eyes  alight  with  interest. 

Cathal  Cassidy  was  sitting  near  the  wall,  his  chair  tilted 
back,  resting  against  the  whitewashed  wall  under  the  sooty 
lamp,  his  legs  stretched  out  straight  from  the  knee  down- 
ward and  the  toes  of  his  boots  touching  the  floor.  He  had 
a  full  pipe  in  his  mouth,  the  taut  skin  of  his  face  showed 
like  polished  bronze  in  the  reflection  of  the  lamp. 

ifhiggin  tut    Do  you  understand?     Colloquially  —  See  my  point  T 


SEIN  FEINERS  215 

"I  bet  ye  that  ye  don't  hold  with  these  ould  stories  iv 
the  times  that  wor,"  said  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  taking  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth  and  spitting  in  the  bowl.  He  looked 
at  Cathal  as  he  spoke. 

"I  do  and  I  don't,"  said  the  young  man.  "With  all  re- 
spect to  Peggy,  1  don't  believe  in  the  taking  iv  butter  away 
from  the  churn  as  she  tells  about  it." 

Coy  pressed  the  tobacco  down  the  heel  of  his  pipe  with 
a  miry  thumb  and  put  the  pipe  in  his  pocket. 

"That's  the  way  with  the  young  nowadays,"  said  the 
old  man,  fixing  one  eye  on  Peggy.  "They  go  on  believin' 
anything  but  what's  right.  Cathal  Cassidy  doesn't  be- 
lieve anything  by  the  way  iv  him,  and  Corney  McKelvie 
believes  everything  that's  not  good  for  any  one  to  give 
an  ear  to." 

"That's  the  truth,"  said  Coy. 

"There  let  them,  then,"  said  Peggy.  "They'll  one  day 
get  past  that  if  they  live  long  enough.  It's  turning  Sasse- 
nach that  every  one  is  that's  growing  up  now.  Don't  ye 
think  so  yerself,  Mr.  Brogan?" 

Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  on  a  chair  near  the  door,  unable  to 
find  a  word  suitable  for  the  occasion  at  that  moment, 
nodded  his  head  knowingly  as  a  sign  that  without  great 
consideration  he  would  not  disagree  with  Peggy  Eibbig's 
assertion. 

"Everything  is  changing,  and  for  the  worse,"  said  young 
Corney  McKelvie,  who,  although  having  fought  two  years 
for  England  was  now  a  Republican  in  favor  of  Sein  Fein. 
"Even  this  sector  that  is  so  far  away  from  the  influence 
of  the  Sassenach  is  getting  into  demned  English  ways. 
It  was  different  thirty  years  ago.  Then  there  was  some- 
thing Irish  about  Dungarrow ;  some  customs  of  the  ancient 
Gaelic  state  remained  here.  People  worked  together  to 
do  things  and  paid  in  kind.  Neighbors  helped  one  another 
to  cut  turf;  now  a  man  pays  so  much-  a  day.  You  give 
a  man  Sassenach  money  to  thatch  a  house.  Whoever  paid 
a  man  to  thatch  a  house  years  back?  Ye  gave  him  a  creel 
of  pratees  or  a  load  of  hay  or  some  souvenir  like  that. 
Then  a  poor  bloke  got  a  bit  and  sup,  and  the  door  wasn't 


216  MAUREEN 

hasped  at  night  so  that  he  couldn't  come  in  if  he  was 
passing.  Now  ye '11  not  see  a  demned  beggar  on  the  road 
at  all—" 

"And  thank  God!"  said  Peggy  with  a  sigh  as  if  mourn- 
ing for  what  the  beggars  had  cost  her  in  their  day.  "The 
beggars  were  a  curse  on  the  place,  gallivanting  all  over 
the  country  and  them  up  to  all  sorts  iv  capers.  'Twas 
gowpins  iv  pratees,  gugeens  iv  milk,  meal  and  what  not  to 
them  at  all  hours  iv  the  day.  And  not  alone  that,  but 
shakedowns  at  night  and  them  scratchin'  themselves  under 
the  window  the  way  that  ye  couldn't  get  a  wink  iv  sleep 
afeeard  that  they  might  go  away  with  half  iv  the  house 
in  their  mauleen  or  else  set  you  and  yours  on  fire  afore 
they  went.  I  couldn't  stand  them,  the  Friels  with  their 
kettles  and  the  McGrorys  with  their  donkeys  and  maybe 
them  stealin'  a  young  sucker  or  a  bag  iv  turf  under  your 
very  nose.  They  were  heavy  on  the  goodwill  iv  the  parish, 
John  the  Jumper,  Biddy  Fly,  Meehal  Dearg,  Hudy  Sowans 
and  the  rest  iv  them.  Are  you  one  of  these  Sein  Feiners, 
Fergus  Donnel?"  she  asked,  looking  at  a  young  boy  of 
seventeen  who  sat  near  her. 

"I  am,"  said  Fergus.  "And  it's  what  everybody  should 
be  now.  All  the  young  men  in  the  parish  are  Sein  Feiners, 
every  one  iv  them." 

"But  they  weren't  in  the  old  times,"  said  the  woman. 
"And  they  had  more  sense  then  than  they  have  now,  more 
sense  in  every  way.  Maybe  they  hadn't  as  much  money, 
but  they  couldn't  expect  that  with  no  war  in  foreign  parts 
to  help  them.  But  what  they  had  they  kept,  and  it's  not 
that  that  they  can  do  now.  Are  we  going  to  get  the  Old 
Age  Pension  if  they  keep  on  in  this  way?" 

"Of  course  you  will,"  said  Fergus.  "It's  not  the  Sasse- 
nach that  will  pay  it  to  you  then,  but  the  Irish." 

"Then  the  back  of  my  hand  to  it-,"  said  Peggy.  "If  I 
wait  till  the  Irish  people  pay  me  anything  I'll  go  down 
into  the  grave  without  gettin  *  it. " 

"The  times  that  used  to  be  were  bad  times,"  said  Coy 
Fergus  Beeragh.  "But  now  we're  better  off  than  we  ever 


SEIN  FEINERS  217 

were  in  all  our  lives  and  'leave  well  enough  alone'  is  what 
I  say  and  not  have  this  speech-makin '  and  marchin'  and 
drillin'  all  over  the  country.  A  lot  of  plaishams  is  what 
the  young  people  are  coming  to.  It's  the  war  that'll  come 
to  the  parish  iv  Dungarrow  afore  they  finish  their  capers. 
As  it  is  now  they're  at  the  back  iv  the  hills  at  Clyarra 
guarding  the  railway  bridge  at  night  with  swords  and 
guns." 

"And  maybe  it  wouldn't  do  as  much  harm  as  all  that," 
said  Condy  Heelagh  from  the  fireside.  He  spoke  of  war. 
"If  it  comes  at  all  the  boys  will  be  wantin'  guns  to  fight 
with,  and  I  think  that  I  might  get  rid  iv  that  one  that's 
up  on  the  rafters."  He  pointed  at  the  ancient  fowling- 
piece.  "It  has  been  there  in  this  house  for  long  and 
many's  a  day,  and  when  it's  used  with  a  fistful  of  slugs  in 
it,  and  a  plug  iv  paper,  it  can  scatter  death  round  it  for 
half  a  mile.  And  it's  aisy  to  shoot  out  iv  it,  too.  One  pull 
on  the  tricker  and  if  the  cap  is  a  good  one  it  can  fill  any- 
thing that  we  fire  at  full  iv  lead.  Now  if  the  war  comes, 
Cathal  Cassidy,  how  much  could  I  get  for  that  gun?" 

"God  save  us  from  a  war,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig,  crossing 
herself.  "What  would  be  the  good  iv  sellin'  that  gun  when 
they  would  stop  the  Old  Age  Pension?  And  then  we'd 
have  the  beggars  back  here  as  well,  rakin'  all  over  the 
country  as  bad  as  they  were  in  the  days  that's  past.  Dirty 
rascals  they  wor,  them  iv  old  times." 

"They're  gone  and  let  them  rest,"  said  Condy  Heelagh 
from  the  fire,  his  coat  off  and  his  shirt  riding  up  round  his 
neck  where  it  formed  in  folds  like  a  muffler.  Out  from  the 
folds  rose  his  narrow,  weasel-like  head,  the  eyes  blinking 
craftily  and  his  nose  drooling.  "They're  gone,  and  let 
them  rest,"  he  repeated  in  a  squeaky  voice.  "We've  got 
to  live,  and  that's  what  matters." 

"Aye,  we've  got  to  live,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"And  maybe  die  if  the  war  comes  here,"  said  Condy 
Heelagh,  his  parchment  face  forming  into  a  smile.  "Do 
ye  think,  Cathal,  that  the  war  will  come  here?" 

"It  may  be  that,"  said  Cathal.     "One  never  knows 


218  MAUREEN 

what  may  come  to  pass  now.  One  day  it's  shootin'  here 
and  another  day  it's  shootin'  there,  and  one  never  knows 
what's  goin'  to  happen  next." 

"I  know  what  would  happen  next  if  I  got  behind  Ser- 
geant Kinnear  iv  Stranarachary  some  dark  night,"  said 
Columb  Ruagh  from  the  corner  where  he  was  sitting  near 
the  window.  "It  would  be  the  Sergeant's  death,  the  black 
spawn  iv  the  divil.  It  would  be  one  blow  on  the  back  iy 
the  head,  and  his  brains  would  be  lyin'  all  over  the  road." 

"Wouldn't  ye  give  him  a  round  iv  shot?"  said  Condy 
Heelagh,  again  fixing  his  eye  on  the  ancient  gun. 

"Not  me,"  Columb  growled,  shaking  his  head. 
"Wouldn't  waste  shot  on  the  bastard.  A  stick  is  too  good 
for  him." 

"But  it's  wrong,  takin'  a  man's  life,"  said  Cathal  Cas- 
sidy  in  a  low  voice.  "It  won't  help  us  if  that's  done.  And 
besides,  the  Sergeant  is  an  Irishman.  We  want  him  with 
us,  like  every  other  Irishman  in  the  country.  When  we 
succeed  in  our  fight  he  will  be  with  us,  one  of  ourselves. 
If  we  kill  him  it  won't  help  us  either  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  or  in  the  eyes  iv  God." 

"God  will  never  blame  a  man  for  puttin'  a  policeman  out 
iv  the  world, ' '  said  Columb  fervently,  spitting  on  the  floor. 
"Will  he  now,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan?" 

"I'm  sure  he  won't,"  said  Mr.  Brogan  with  a  nervous 
smile.  Mr.  Brogan  would  not  have  come  to  Condy  Hee- 
lagh's  if  he  had  known  that  Columb  Ruagh  was  there. 
Why  Columb  came  that  night  to  Condy  Heelagh 's  was  not 
known  to  Mr.  Brogan.  Columb  seldom  left  his  own  town- 
land  in  the  hills  where  he  carried  on  a  great  business  in 
illicit  distillation.  He  was  a  Sein  Feiner,  and  the  Sein 
Feiners  bought  the  potheen.  He  was  also  a  waterkeeper. 
This  was  a  blind,  for  a  waterkeeper  is  above  suspicion  in 
Governmental  eyes.  Columb  was  now  a  rich  man,  and  the 
Crinnan  hills  were  white  with  his  wool. 

"There,  now,  what  did  I  tell  ye?"  said  Columb  Ruagh 
with  the  voice  of  a  diplomat  who  has  made  a  master  stroke 
in  business  and  looking  at  Mr.  Brogan.  "There,  now, 
what  did  I  tell  ye?"  he  repeated,  appealing  to  the  house. 


SEIN  FEINERS  219 

"Didn't  I  say  that  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  would  be  the  one 
to  side  with  me?  Ye  are  a  man,  Eamon,  that's  what  ye 
are,  one  iv  the  best,  the  best  in  the  whole  country.  And 
me,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,  I  always  say  what  I  think  and 
what  more  can  a  man  do  ?  Can  any  man  do  more,  Eamon 
na  Sgaddan?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Eamon,  evidently  ill  at  ease,  but 
smiling  as  he  spoke. 

"Iv  course  not,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,"  Columb  went  on, 
remorselessly  pursuing  the  subject.  "We  know  one  an- 
other, the  two  iv  us,  and  there's  no  secrets.  Some  call  ye 
Mr.  Brogan,  but  I  say,  damn  Mr.  Brogan.  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan 's  good  enough  for  me,  as  it  should  be,  for  we  know 
one  another.  We've  done  our  graft  like  men  where  men 
are  needed  for  a  job.  It  doesn't  matter  a  damn  where 
we  did  it,  whether  it  was  throwin'  dung  off  iv  a  wagon  or 
any  other  business.  Isn't  that  right,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan?" 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Keeran,"  said  poor  Eamon,  his  face 
a  pallid  green.  What  Columb  was  driving  at  he  could  not 
fathom.  Mr.  Brogan  at  that  moment  wished  that  he  was 
back  home.  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal,  though  quieter  now 
than  in  the  early  years  of  her  married  life,  was  yet  a 
force  to  be  reckoned  with.  Still,  Mr.  Brogan  feared  Columb 
Buagh  even  more  than  he  feared  his  own  wife. 

"Iv  course  it's  right,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,"  Columb  said 
maliciously.  "I'm  seldom  wrong.  I  mind  when  I  met 
ye  in  Scotland  for  the  first  time,  and  me  on  the  tramp 
lookin'  for  a  job  and  yerself  strong  in  business,  'twas 
'How  are  ye,  Columb?'  when  ye  clapped  yer  eyes  on  me, 
and  glad  ye  were  to  see  a  towney  iv  yer  own.  Every  man 
his  due,  Eamon,  every  man  his  due,  and  credit  to  them 
that  never  turns  their  back  on  a  towney.  Ye  were  on  yer 
business,  and  what  yer  business  was  I'm  not  goin'  to  say, 
but  it  was  somethin'  that  brought  ye  in  money,  and  ye 
weren't  slow  in  helpin*  me.  And  I  was  wantin'  help  at 
the  time.  Now  where  was  it  that  we  met?"  Columb  in- 
quired, closing  one  eye  and  looking  at  Eamon. 

Mr.  Brogan  winced,  and  a  sickly  smile  overspread  his 
features.  Peggy  Ribbig,  not  as  deaf  as  a  woman  of  seventy 


220  MAUREEN 

might  well  be,  ceased  her  knitting  and  edged  her  stool 
nearer  to  Mr.  Brogan. 

"And  once  ye  were  a  great  dancer,"  Columb  went  on 
in  the  same  slow  tone  of  malicious  banter,  without  waiting 
for  Eamon  to  answer  his  last  question.  "I  mind  the  time 
that  ye  could  fut  an  Alaman  with  the  best  iv  them,  and 
kick  the  riggin'  off  iv  a  house  in  a  six-hand  reel.  Where 
was  it  that  I  seen  ye  dance  last?"  queried  the  red  man, 
wrinkling  his  forehead  as  if  a  thought  had  escaped  him. 
"Oh!  I  mind  it  now,"  he  went  on.  "  'Twas  the  night 
the  dance  was  givin'  at  Neddy  Og's,  nineteen  years  Can- 
dlemas comin' — " 

' '  Last  Candlemas, ' '  Peggy  Ribbig  interrupted.  ' '  I  mind 
the  night  well,  and  the  boys  comin'  home  in  the  mornin' 
singin'  as  if  they  would  pull  down  the  sky  with  their 
noise,  the  vagabonds." 

"Some  iv  them  went  home  singin',  I'll  allow  that,"  said 
Columb  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  going  to  impart  a 
wonderful  piece  of  news  to  his  audience.  "Some  iv  them 
went  home  singin',  and  some  iv  them  weren't  able  to  go 
home  at  all  with  the  drink  in  them,  and  other  iv  them  went 
home  with  the  girls." 

"That's  true,"  said  Condy  Heelagh,  glancing  in  turn 
at  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  and  Columb  Ruagh.  "That's  true 
and  goes  without  sayin'.  Always  the  Dungarrow  boys 
were  the  divils  for  the  girls  whether  they  were  drunk  or 
sober — " 

"A  true  word,"  said  Columb  Ruagh.  "When  they 
were  sober  they  could  take  care  iv  themselves  and  not  run 
into  mischief.  But  if  a  man's  drunk  it's  hard  to  know 
what  capers  he's  up  to.  Don't  ye  think  so  now,  Eamon 
na  Sgaddan?" 

"It's  maybe  true,"  said  Eamon  in  a  whisper,  his  hands 
trembling  and  a  moisture  showing  on  his  forehead. 

"There,  he  agrees  with  me  again,"  said  Columb  sweetly, 
resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  gripping  his  stick  with  both 
hands  and  fixing  a  scrutinizing  glance  on  Mr.  Brogan. 
"He  knows  things  just  like  me,  for  both  of  us  have  been 
beyont  the  water  and  we've  done  business  there.  What 


SEIN  FEINERS  221 

the  business  was  doesn't  matter.  But  we've  done  it,  and 
that 's  as  much  as  any  one  can  expect  iv  a  man.  Now  isn  't 
that  right,  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh?" 

Columb  appealed  to  the  old  man  who  now  sat  in  a  corner 
near  the  kitchen  bed,  his  close-set  eyes,  filmy  with  years, 
fixed  vacantly  on  the  throng  that  sat  round  the  fire.  In 
one  trembling  hand  he  held  a  spill  and  was  on  the  point  of 
lighting  the  pipe  which  he  held  between  his  toothless  gums. 

' '  What  was  it  that  ye  said,  Columb  Ruagh  ? "  he  inquired 
in  a  wheezy  voice.  "It's  hard  iv  hearin'  that  I  am,  and 
who  can  blame  me  and  me  over  eighty?" 

"But  there's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet,"  said  Condy  Hee- 
lagh.  ' '  It 's  many  years  that 's  in  front  iv  ye  this  day,  Coy 
Fergus  Beeragh.  I  saw  ye  yesterday  out  herdin'  the  cows, 
and  says  I  to  Peggy,  and  the  two  iv  us  lookin'  at  ye  as  ye 
ran  after  the  old  brannat  meealan  chasin'  her  from  the 
corn,  'Coy  can  shake  his  legs  yet,'  says  I,  'just  like  a  two- 
year-old  ! '  Them  were  my  words,  Coy,  and  Peggy  can  tell 
ye  the  same.  Ye  can  run  as  quick  the  day  as  ye  did  on  the 
day  that  we  were  chased  by  the  gaugers  up  be  the  back 
iv  Binbawn." 

"And  that  was  on  the  year  iv  Dony  Faddan's  death," 
said  Coy,  lighting  his  pipe  and  pressing  the  tobacco  down 
the  bowl  with  his  thumb. 

"But  it's  not  yerself  that  can  call  Dony  Faddan's 
death  to  mind,  is  it?"  asked  Peggy  Ribbig.  "It's  long 
gone  the  time  since  Dony,  God  rest  him,  died." 

"I  mind  it  as  well  as  yesterday,"  said  Coy,  sitting  back 
against  the  bed.  "It  was  Lammas  night  and  me  only  a 
wee  boy,  hardly  the  height  iv  two  turf  lyin '  flat  one  on  top 
iv  the  other.  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  'twas  Lammas  night, 
the  night  iv  the  fair  iv  Doochary.  A  good  fair  it  was,  too, 
I  mind,  not  like  the  fairs  that's  in  it  nowadays,  with  ran- 
nies  iv  stock,  sheep  with  hair  on  their  backs  instead  iv  wool, 
and  cows  with  udders  no  bigger  than  bockans.  Call  them 
cows,  indeed.  At  the  fair  of  Stranarachary  six  months 
past  come  next  Thursday  I  saw  a  comin'  cow  that  I  would 
as  soon  look  for  the  milk  from  her  teats  when  she  calved  as 
I  would  from  the  legs  iv  a  pot.  'Twas  Micky  Hudagh  Roe 


222  MAUREEN 

that  was  selling  her,  too.  But  his  holdin'  could  send  out 
cow  beasts  years  back.  I  mind  twenty  years  past  the  year 
Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel  was  drownded — " 

' '  But  what  about  Dony  Faddan  ? ' '  asked  Fergus  Donnel, 
who  with  face  dark  blue  like  a  sun-burned  potato  was  sit- 
ting under  the  chimney  brace,  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  wall  on  which  his  head  was  resting. 

"Ah!  poor  Dony,  God  rest  him!"  said  Coy,  slipping 
easily  back  to  the  story  which  he  had  begun.  "  'Twas 
Lammas  night.  And  the  rain !  It  was  comin '  down  heavens 
hard,  and  the  parish  was  one  flood.  The  worst  flood  that 
ever  was,  that  one.  Young  Peadar  Niall,  him  that  died 
three  years  ago,  was  almost  drownded  that  night  coming 
home  from  the  dance  given  by  Shemus  Phelim  away  back 
behind  Sliab  League.  He  was  on  the  way  home  in  the 
early  morning  afore  it  cleared,  and  comin '  across  the  Owen- 
awadda  at  the  Meenahalla  Cloghan  he  slipped  into  the  river. 
How  he  got  out  bates  me." 

"I  mind  young  Peadar  and  him  almost  gettin'  lost  in 
the  river,"  said  Peggy.  "And  it's  three  years  gone  since 
he  died.  One  wouldn't  think  it,  would  they  now?  And 
him  that  healthy  on  it,  too,  when  he  went,  God  rest  him!" 

"The  time  will  come  on  every  one  iv  us,  no  matter  what 
the  health  is,"  said  old  Coy.  "The  best  thatchin'  will  go 
with  the  years,  no  matter  how  it's  done.  It's  the  years 
that  always  tell  in  the  long  run,  and  if  a  man  lives  well  he 
can  die  easy.  That's  me  own  opinion,  Columb  Ruagh, 
if  a  man  lives  well  and  does  his  best  to  himself  and  neigh- 
bors near  and  far  he  can  die  aisy."  The  old  man  recall- 
ing the  question  of  Columb  Ruagh,  five  minutes  previously, 
had  now  given  answer. 

"There,  ye  see,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan,"  said  Columb,  still 
leaning  on  his  stick  and  looking  at  Mr.  Brogan.  "There's 
the  answer  to  that  question.  Coy  himself  believes  that  whem 
a  man  does  his  bit  iv  business  and  does  it  well  it's  as  much 
as  any  one  can  expect  iv  him.  That's  a  fair  answer  to  a 
straight  question,  and  the  answer  was  made  by  a  dacent 
man.  'If  he  lives  well,'  says  Coy,  and  that's  the  point. 


SEIN  FEINERS  223 

A  man  may  do  his  best  in  a  lot  iv  things  and  be  far  behind 
the  line  with  other  things.  I  've  seen  many  a  man  like  that 
in  me  travels.  There  was  one  laddybuck  that  I  knew,  and 
him  and  me  worked  on  the  same  shift  at  the  Glasgow  dung- 
coup.  Maybe  ye  yerself  saw  that  coup  when  ye  were  over 
water  on  business.  It  used  to  stink  like  a  privy,  and  ye 
had  to  hold  yer  nose  in  yer  finger  when  ye  came  next  or 
near  it.  Well,  I  worked  there,  for  I  was  out  on  tramp  at 
the  time  and  got  a  start  on  the  job.  But  I  didn't  like  it 
at  all,  and  that  with  me  the  rough  customer  that  I  am. 
But  I  had  to  stick  it  and  do  me  best,  and  this  fellow 
worked  with  me  doin'  the  same  sort  iv  job,  and  him  a  man 
that  had  the  learnin'.  Where  he  came  from  I  don't  know. 
Ye  never  ask  questions  to  hear  lies  beyont  the  water. 

"Well,  this  fellow  that  I'm  talkin'  about  got  into  trou- 
ble with  a  woman,"  continued  Columb,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
on  Mr.  Brogan.  Condy  Heelagh  cocked  up  his  ears,  Peggy 
Ribbig  edged  her  stool  still  closer  to  Columb.  Coy  Bee- 
ragh,  hard  of  hearing,  had  dropped  into  the  easy  sleep 
of  age  and  was  snoring  loudly.  "He  got  into  trouble  with 
a  woman,  and  ye  know  what  happened?" 

The  man  appealed  to  the  house. 

"Aye,  Columb,  aye,"  said  Condy  Heelagh,  nodding  his 
head  sagely  and  wrinkling  up  his  eyebrows.  "It  means 
only  one  thing  that,  and  sometimes  it's  enough." 

"Just  so,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig,  who  by  this  time  had 
forgotten  all  about  her  stocking.  While  her  ears  were  open 
to  every  word  which  Columb  Ruagh  said,  her  eyes  never 
left  the  face  of  Mr.  Brogan.  Cathal  Cassidy,  Corney  Mc- 
Kelvie  and  Fergus  Donnel,  with  pipes  lit,  were  very  quiet 
but  obviously  interested. 

The  face  of  Mr.  Brogan  was  alternately  turning  white 
and  crimson.  He  would  have  given  a  lot  to  be  able  to  get 
to  his  feet  and  make  his  exit.  But  this  he  was  unable  to 
do.  He  seemed  glued  to  his  chair  and  sat  there  with  his 
mouth  open,  conscious  of  nothing  save  the  staring  eyes  and 
expectant  faces.  He  could  not  budge  an  inch,  move  a  leg 
or  raise  an  arm.  To  do  either  would  have  been  torture. 


224  MAUREEN 

In  front  of  him  the  faces  whirled,  swept  round  and  round 
and  formed  into  one  face,  red  and  hairy,  the  face  of  Columb 
Ruagh. 

"And  that's  what  happened,"  Columb  Ruagh  droned 
out,  weighing  every  word  as  if  each  was  of  incalculable 
value.  "That's  what  happened,  and  he  was  a  good  fellow 
in  every  other  way.  But  it's  funny  the  make-up  iv  a  man, 
isn't  it,  Cathal  Cassidy?" 

"Of  some  men,  I'll  grant  ye,"  Cathal  replied  in  a  very 
calm  voice,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  tapping  the 
bowl  on  his  hand.  "But  the  man  with  the  funniest  make- 
up that  I  know  is  yerself,  Columb  Ruagh." 

"Me?  How  d'ye  make  that  out?"  asked  Columb,  scrap- 
ing the  floor  with  the  tip  of  his  stick  while  a  wave  of  con- 
flicting emotions  sprang  up  within  him,  hatred,  fury  and 
a  sudden  desire  to  do  some  wicked  deed,  to  grip  Cathal 
Cassidy  by  the  hand,  twist  the  arm  from  the  shoulder, 
just  to  show  him  that  he  could  trample  him  to  the  ground 
like  a  worm  if  he  desired.  But  the  impulse  was  just  of  a 
moment's  space.  It  would  not  serve  his  purpose  if  he 
fell  foul  of  Cathal,  the  President  of  the  Sein  Fein  Party 
in  Dungarrow.  Cathal  was  too  well  liked  by  the  people, 
and  at  present  he  was  worth  keeping  as  a  friend.  But 
should  Columb  ever  get  the  opportunity  he  would  show 
him — but  at  present  .  .  .  He  glanced  covertly  at  the 
young  man's  face  as  if  to  read  something  from  its  expres- 
sion, but  there  was  nothing  to  be  gathered  from  the  calm, 
frank  glance  which  Cathal  fixed  on  him. 

"Well,  ye 're  a  funny  man  the  way  ye  take  things,"  said 
Columb,  doing  the  utmost  to  hide  the  hatred  seething  in 
his  breast.  "I  just  asked  a  question,  Cathal  Cassidy." 

"Iv  course  ye  did,  Columb,  and  I  answered  it,"  said 
Cathal.  "And  I  don't  see  what's  funny  in  that,"  he  con- 
cluded, shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"Well,  it  was  in  the  way  ye  said  it,"  was  Columb 's  com- 
ment as  he  got  to  his  feet,  pulled  the  hat  down  on  his  head 
and  placed  his  stick  under  his  arm.  "Well,  good  night  to 
all  iv  ye.  It  will  take  me  the  best  part  iv  an  hour  to  get 
to  the  Crinnan  cross-roads.  Good  night  t'ye  all."  He 


SEIN  FEINERS  225 

went  to  the  door  which  was  open  and  stood  there  for  a 
minute  looking  out  into  the  darkness. 

"It's  dark  as  the  pit  iv  hell,"  he  said,  without  looking 
round.  "And  here's  somebody  comin'.  Good  night  t'ye." 

The  last  remark  was  addressed  to  some  person  coming 
towards  the  house,  a  man  with  very  heavy  boots  and  a 
scythe  over  his  shoulder. 

"Good  night  t'ye,"  was  the  reply  in  the  darkness. 
"Who's  that  that  I  hear  speakin'?  Not  old  Columb  Euagh 
surely." 

"Aye,  it's  old  Columb,"  said  the  red-haired  man.  "It's 
old  Columb,  Liam  Logan." 

"Well,  it's  not  every  night  that  we  see  yerself  down 
here;"  said  Liam  Logan,  who  had  just  come  back  from 
the  smithy  of  Stranarachary  where  he  had  got  his  scythe 
hung  for  the  morrow's  hay-cutting.  "And  I  thought  that 
every  one  was  in  their  beds  at  this  hour  iv  the  night,  too." 

"There's  a  full  house  in  Condy's  here,"  said  Columb, 
pointing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  lighted  interior.  "They're 
all  in  now,  or  most  iv  them,  anyway." 

"Indeed?"  said  Liam  in  a  mysterious  tone.  "Corney 
McKelvie  and  Cathal?" 

"Aye,"  said  Columb. 

At  this  point  a  number  of  the  young  men  came  to  the 
door  and  accompanied  Columb  to  the  road. 

"We'll  go  along  a  bit,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy;  and  Condy 
Heelagh,  who  came  to  the  door,  saw  all  the  separate  entities 
merge  into  one  block  of  blackness  as  distance  between  them 
and  his  home  increased.  Then  the  old  man  went  back  to 
his  room  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh 
was  still  asleep,  Mr.  Brogan  had  disappeared  and  Peggy 
Ribbig  was  on  her  knees  saying  her  Rosary. 

Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  opened  his  eyes  lazily  and  looked 
round. 

"It's  time  to  be  getting  home,"  he  said.  "Are  the  rest 
of  them  off?" 

"They're  that,  and  away  up  the  road  to  talk  about  some- 
thing," said  Condy  Heelagh.  "And  with  the  times  that's 
in  it  one  never  knows  what  they're  up  to." 


226  MAUREEN 

"True  for  you,  Condy,"  said  Coy.  "In  the  old  days, 
the  time  of  the  Molly  Maguires,  one  never  knew  what  they 
were  up  to." 

"I  know  what  they're  about  now,"  said  Peggy  Rjbbig, 
breaking  a  decade  of  the  Rosary  short  and  getting  to  her 
feet.  "It's  the  soldiers  that  they'll  be  after,  them  at  the 
back  iv  the  hills  that's  watchin'  the  railway  bridge  of 
Clyarra  afeard  that  the  Sein  Feiners  will  blow  it  up  with 
dynamite.  And  that'll  be  the  stoppin'  iv  the  Old  Age  Pen- 
sion, I'll  warrant  ye." 

"Maybe  they'll  be  wantin'  to  buy  that  gun  from  me," 
said  Condy  Heelagh,  his  eye  on  the  ancient  fowling-piece. 

Meanwhile  those  who  had  left  Condy 's  came  to  a  halt 
on  the  roadside  and  looked  at  one  another. 

"All  know  what's  to  be  done,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy  in  a 
low  voice. 

"As  per  instructions,"  said  Corney  McKelvie. 

' '  The  morrow  night  in  Micky  Bawn  Reedagh  's  of  Drima- 
croom,"  said  Cathal.  "Meet  at  midnight,  fully  armed." 

"Full  fightin'  order,"  said  Corney  McKelvie. 


When  Micky  Bawn  Reedagh  died,  old  Micky  Bawn  Ree- 
dagh of  the  townland  of  Drimacroom,  he  went  to  his  last 
home  on  the  day  that  Hudagh  Nelly  Wor,  borne,  shoulder 
high,  was  carried  to  the  little  graveyard  of  Stranarachary. 
Micky  Bawn  was  rich  in  stock  and  land,  a  man  of  sub- 
stance, held  in  high  respect  by  his  neighbors.  But  he  lived 
all  alone,  did  the  work  of  the  farm  and  household  on  his 
own,  washed  his  own  socks,  milked  his  own  cows,  did  a 
woman's  work  as  well  as  a  man's,  and  for  all  that  he  lived 
to  the  ripe  age  of  eighty-seven. 

Dying,  he  left  a  farm  of  fifty-three  acres  behind  him  as 
well  as  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  pounds  in  gold.  At 
his  funeral  the  offerings  amounted  to  seventeen  pounds, 
ten  shillings,  a  sure  sign  of  the  great  regard  in  which  he 
was  held.  The  farm  passed  to  his  cousin,  a  young  man 
named  Andy  Croagh,  who  looked  on  money  as  something 


SEIN  FEINERS  227 

round  to  go  round,  spent  it  on  drink,  sold  the  farm  and 
in  the  same  manner  spent  the  price  it  brought. 

Hughie  McGroary,  merchant  of  Stranarachary,  then  be- 
came the  owner  of  the  land  and  used  it  as  a  grazing-f arm. 
The  house  was  turned  into  a  byre,  and  here,  seventeen  years 
after  Micky  Bawn  Reedagh's  death,  Micky  walked  the 
same  as  when  he  was  alive,  carrying  on  the  various  jobs 
of  the  farm.  No  person  would  visit  the  place  in  the  dark. 
All  kept  away  from  it,  shunning  it  as  a  place  accursed 
and  haunted. 

On  the  night  following  the  meeting  in  Condy  Heelagh's 
a  number  of  men,  carrying  strange  weapons  that  glinted  in 
the  light  of  a  growing  moon,  entered  the  byre,  and  pres- 
ently the  cows  came  out  into  the  meadows. 

The  men,  with  the  exception  of  one,  sat  down  on  the 
floor  indifferent  to  the  filth  of  the  place.  The  one  who 
stood  upright,  a  tall,  dark  man  with  a  mask  over  his  face, 
spoke. 

"Eleven!"  he  said  in  a  whisper.    "Who's  missing?" 

"Corney  McKelvie,"  was  the  answer. 

"No  idea  iv  where  he  is,  any  iv  ye?"  asked  the  tall  man, 
who  was  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"I  met  him  goin'  down  to  Stranarachary,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  darkness.  "He's  drawin'  his  pension." 

"How  much  is  it?"  asked  Columb  Ruagh,  who  was  sit- 
ting under  the  window,  rubbing  the  nape  of  his  neck  with 
a  toil-thickened  forefinger. 

"Thirteen  and  nine  a  week,"  said  Fergus  Donnel. 

"Well,  whatever  this  gas  is,  it's  worth  gulpin'  down  if 
it's  goin'  to  bring  a  man  in  a  salary  like  that,"  said  Columb 
Ruagh. 

"Well,  there  he's  comin'  now,"  said  a  voice  from  a 
dark  corner  of  the  byre  as  a  step  could  be  heard  from  the 
darkness. 

* '  Halt !  Who  goes  there ! ' '  called  a  man  from  the  door, 
Liam  Logan,  who  was  standing  there  with  a  rifle  as  sentry. 

"A  friend,"  was  the  answer. 

' '  Pass,  friend.    All  is  well ! ' ' 

McKelvie  came  through  the  door,  his  form  clearly  out- 


228  MAUREEN 

lined  against  the  night.  He  brought  a  gun  from  his  shoul- 
der and  thumped  its  butt  on  the  floor. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?"  asked  Cathal  Cassidy,  allud- 
ing to  the  weapon  which  McKelvie  brought  in. 

"From  Condy  Heelagh,  sir,"  McKelvie  replied.  "Asked 
Condy  to  give  it  me  this  mornin ',  but  the  demned  old  wash- 
out wouldn't.  I  told  him  I'd  bring  it  back,  but  no  bong! 
Then  he  said  he'd  give  us  the  lend  iv  it  if  I  gave  him  half 
a  quid.  Hadn't  half  a  quid  so  I'd  to  go  into  Stranara- 
chary  and  draw  my  blinkin'  pension." 

"Can  it  shoot?"  asked  Columb  Euagh. 

"The  damned  thing  looks  as  if  it  might,"  said  McKelvie. 
"Now,  what's  doin'?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  there,"  said  a  man  sit- 
ting on  his  hunkers  in  the  center  of  the  room,  the  light  of 
the  moon  streaming  through  the  narrow  window  resting 
on  his  shoulders.  "It's  a  good  four  miles  over  the  hill. 
By  the  road  six  miles  or  more.  And  maybe  it's  the  polis 
we'd  meet." 

"Wish  we  did,"  growled  Columb  Ruagh. 

"We'll  have  to  get  there  before  dawn,"  said  Cathal 
Cassidy.  When  he  spoke  all  became  silent.  ' '  Who  has  the 
time!" 

A  naked  forearm  stretched  itself  out  on  the  floor;  a 
luminous  watch  attached  to  the  wrist  glimmered  in  the 
darkness. 

"Half -past  twelve,"  said  the  man  with  the  watch. 

"What  are  we  goin'  to  do  with  them?"  asked  Fergus 
Donnel,  in  a  nervous  voice.  His  age  was  seventeen. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  we'll  do,"  said  McKelvie  in 
short,  sharp  sentences,  clipping  his  words,  probably  in 
imitation  of  a  Captain  whom  he  knew  in  France  and  whom 
he  admired  greatly.  "We'll  do  the  surprise  stunt,  get  on 
their  bally  necks.  Whizz!  Just  like  that." 

"How?"  asked  Cathal  with  a  smile. 

"Damned  simple,  old  man,  damned  simple,"  said  Mc- 
Kelvie. ' '  They  come  back  from  duty,  morning,  6 :30  Brig- 
ade time.  Got  this  Mills  grenade  timed  to  it" — he  pulled 
a  gun-metal  watch  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  looked  at  its 


SEIN  FEINERS  229 

face  and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  again — "  timed  to  the 
minute.  Got  it  from  a  mate  o'  mine,  Nobby  Such,  a  good 
boy  keen  as  mustard,  but  no  demned  imagination.  Hadn't 
enough  imagination  to  be  funky,  but  a  good  beggar  all  the 
same.  Got  knocked  over  on  the  Somme.  A  Boche  done 
him  in.  I  done  the  Boche  in." 

"With  the  bay 'net?"  asked  Fergus  Donnel,  drawing  his 
breath  sharply  as  if  he  felt  the  steel  in  his  own  body. 

"Yes,  God  rest  him!"  said  McKelvie. 

"Wish  I'd  a  bay 'net  to  shove  through  some  iv  the 
damned  polis  down  in  Stranarachary, ' '  said  Columb  Ruagh 
with  a  sigh.  "Sergeant  Keeran  for  choice." 

"Well,  we're  not  goin'  to  do  these  fellows  any  harm  the 
night!"  said  Cathal,  alluding  to  the  job  in  hand.  "We'll 
just  disarm  them,  tie  them  up  and  leave  them  lying  by  the 
road  till  some  one  finds  them." 

"That's  the  ticket,"  said  McKelvie.  "We'll  need  a 
map  to  get  the  lie  of  the  land  and  see  the  jumpin'  off 
position. ' ' 

"Ye  know  the  place  as  well  as  ourselves,"  said  Columb 
Ruagh.  "We'll  lie  be  the  back  iv  Carrig-drim,  where 
Biddy  Logan  herds  her  cow  and  scratches  herself  all  day. 
Need  a  map  to  get  there ! ' '  Columb 's  upper  lip  curled  to 
the  nose. 

"Well,  it's  nearly  time,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy,  hitting 
his  pipe  against  the  leaf  of  his  hand.  Outside  the  moon 
was  setting  in  the  back  hills,  and  sheaves  of  shadows  crept 
in  from  the  fields  taking  up  position  behind  clumps  of 
furze  and  whin  as  if  they  also  were  assembling  for  some 
ghostly  escapade.  ' '  Fall  in ! "  said  Cathal  in  a  whisper. 

The  darker  corner  of  the  byre  gave  substance  to  their 
shadows,  and  figures  took  shape  in  the  gloom.  Two  lines 
of  men  fell  into  place,  the  muffled  thud  of  weapons  touch- 
ing the  floor  could  be  heard.  The  cabin,  though  a  small 
oneiy  seemed  to  have  taken  on  ominous  depth.  The  outlines 
of  the  men's  heads  showing  against  the  window  were  dis- 
torted in  the  dim,  milky  light,  vague,  indistinct,  incor- 
poreal. Now  and  again  a  gleam  came  from  the  darkness 
from  the  weapons  of  the  men.  All  were  silent,  waiting 


230  MAUREEN 

for  their  leader  to  speak.  He  spoke  in  Irish,  in  a  calm, 
quiet,  serious  voice  as  if  the  business  in  hand,  because  it 
was  meet  and  right,  required  no  justification  and  no 
apology. 

At  6:30  in  the  morning  the  sentries,  now  on  guard  at 
the  Bridge  of  Clyarra,  would  be  relieved,  five  men  and  a 
sergeant  of  the  Army  of  Occupation.  These  would  go 
back  to  barracks  by  the  public  road,  over  the  uplands  of 
Drimacroom.  On  their  route  they  would  pass  Carrig-drim ; 
here  they  would  be  in  a  very  lonely  part  of  the  parish,  and 
here  the  Sein  Feiners  would  wait  for  them,  lying  hidden 
amidst  the  ferns  that  grew  by  the  roadside.  When  the  sol- 
diers of  the  Army  of  Occupation  passed,  the  Sein  Feiners 
would  cover  them  with  their  rifles.  On  this  being  done 
Cathal  Cassidy  would  step  out  on  the  roadway  and  call 
on  the  soldiers  to  surrender. 

If  the  men  in  khaki  showed  fight,  those  in  the  ferns  were 
to  fire,  but  fire  high  so  that  the  enemy  would  understand 
that  the  affair  was  not  a  joke.  Only  as  a  last  extremity 
were  bullets  to  be  used  for  the  purpose  of  killing.  Rifles 
and  ammunition  were  to  be  taken,  and  the  soldiers  were 
to  be  tied  and  left  by  the  roadside  so  that  they  would  be 
unable  to  disclose  the  fact  of  the  raid  before  the  raiders 
could  get  away. 

"Just  a  short  prayer  for  our  success,"  said  Cathal  when 
orders  were  concluded.  "One  Pater  and  Ave." 

The  dark  figures  knelt  in  the  obscurity,  gripping  their 
weapons.  Cathal  gave  out  the  prayer  in  a  low,  serious 
voice  deep  with  feeling,  and,  with  the  exception  of  one, 
the  whole,  whose  minds  on  the  eve  of  a  great  incident  were 
as  susceptible  to  impressions  as  a  raw  wound,  responded 
in  solemn  voices.  The  exception  was  Columb  Ruagh.  The 
red-haired  man,  unmoved  by  any  refining  influence,  knelt 
because  the  others  knelt,  his  head  against  the  weapon  which 
he  held,  his  face  as  expressionless  and  vacant  as  the  wood 
it  touched. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  party  arrived  at  Car- 
rig-drim and  sorted  themselves  out  in  the  ferns.  All  wore 
masks  and  all  were  armed,  two  with  Army  rifles,  Lee  En- 


SEIN  FEINEBS  231 

fields,  Columb  Ruagh  with  an  Army  revolver  and  a  scythe, 
straightened  and  set  in  a  rough  ash  haft ;  McKelvie,  in  ad- 
dition to  his  fowling-piece,  carried  a  revolver  tied  to  his 
waist,  and  Cathal  Cassidy  had  a  rifle  with  bayonet  affixed. 
This  was  the  only  bayonet  in  the  party. 

It  was  now  dawn,  the  sky  overcast  with  feathery  clouds 
and  a  wind  rising.  Carrig-drim,  a  lichen-clad  rock  bat- 
tered by  the  storms  of  ages,  stood  by  the  roadway,  under 
its  shade  a  well  and  a  holly  bush.  Bound  the  rock  was  a 
field  of  ferns,  in  which  the  men  lay  down  and  waited  for 
the  dawn  to  break.  Over  the  country  was  a  white  mist 
beginning  to  rise  and  fade  in  the  air.  There  was  a  strange 
thrill  in  the  dawn,  something  tense  and  striking. 

The  sky  seemed  to  clear,  and  simultaneously  all  things 
woke  to  life.  A  lark  shot  into  the  air  caroling;  a  sheep, 
its  fleece  wet  with  the  dew,  gazed  inquisitively  over  a  clump 
of  ferns  at  the  men.  It  seemed  as  if  it  wanted  to  ask 
something.  The  dawn  brighteaed,  and  behind  the  dark 
hills  of  the  east  the  sky  reddened  to  the  rising  sun. 

"No  firing  if  they  don't  make  a  fight  iv  it,"  said  Cathal. 
"And  if  ye  have  to  fire  at  all  fire  low  at  their  legs." 

"But  they're  our  enemies,"  said  Columb  Buagh  omi- 
nously, his  eyes,  which  resembled  tongues  of  fire,  gleaming 
with  a  ferocity  which  Cathal  had  seldom  noticed  in  them 
before. 

"These  are  the  orders,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy.  "Ye  don't 
fire  unless  it's  the  last  resort,  and  when  ye  fire  ye 're  to 
fire  high." 

"But  if  the  bullet  goes  low  by  mistake,"  Columb  per- 
sisted. 

"If  that  happens,"  said  Cathal  in  a  low,  decisive  voice, 
speaking  to  the  company  in  general  but  addressing  his  re- 
mark indirectly  to  Columb  Buagh,  "and  if  instructions 
are  not  carried  out  to  the  letter,  the  man  that  disobeys 
will  never  leave  Carrig-drim  alive." 

"That's  the  ticket,  old  man,"  said  McKelvie.  "Damned 
good  sports  most  of  these  blokes.  I  've  shared  rations  with 
them  and  I  know." 

They  relapsed  into  silence.     Donnel,  the  youngster  of 


232  MAUREEN 

seventeen,  had  been  detailed  off  to  watch  the  road  leading 
to  Clyarra  Bridge.  When  he  sighted  the  soldiers  coming 
he  was  to  crawl  back  through  the  ferns  and  report.  From 
time  to  time  McKelvie  drew  out  his  gun-metal  watch,  looked 
at  it,  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  again.  His  hand  shook  a 
little  as  he  did  so. 

Presently  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  ferns  and  Donnel 
appeared. 

"They're  comin',"  he  said  in  a  shaky  voice  and  placing 
his  weapons  on  the  ground  in  front  of  him.  These  were 
two,  a  bill  hook  and  a  thick  ash  plant. 

"How  many?"  asked  Cathal  Cassidy  in  a  whisper. 

"Seven." 

"We're  twelve,"  said  Cathal,  getting  to  his  knees.  His 
voice  was  sharp  and  decisive.  "Now,  ye  know  what's  to 
be  done.  When  they  pass,  I  get  into  the  road  and  call  on 
them  to  put  their  hands  up.  As  I  do  so  all  of  you  stand 
upright,  cover  them  with  your  rifles,  hold  your  pikes  and 
other  weapons  at  the  point  and  wait  for  orders.  Ready!" 

As  they  lay  down  again  they  could  hear  from  the  dis- 
tance the  steady  tramp  of  ammunition  boots  on  the  road- 
way. Going  easy,  smoking  and  carrying  on  a  loud  con- 
versation, they  swung  into  sight,  their  steel  helmets  atilt 
and  their  unsheathed  bayonets  sparkling  in  the  sun.  They 
marched  in  double  file,  their  sergeant  walking  alongside 
taking  part  in  the  conversation.  Far  from  barracks,  dis- 
cipline was  relaxed  and  they  were  marching  easy. 

"Halt!" 

The  command  was  given  in  such  stentorian  tones  that 
the  men  involuntarily  stopped.  The  sergeant  gave  a 
startled  gasp;  the  first  thought  occurring  to  the  man  was 
probably  his  own  crime  in  allowing  the  party  returning 
from  guard  to  march  in  such  an  unmilitary  fashion.  Turn- 
ing round,  he  found  himself  gazing  into  the  rifle  of  Cathal 
Cassidy. 

"What  the  hell!"  he  stammered. 

"Hands  up  at  once,"  said  Cathal  from  the  folds  of  his 
mask,  his  eyes  running  along  the  sights  of  his  rifle  and 


SEIN  FEINERS  233 

coming  to  a  stop  on  the  sergeant's  breast.  "Every  man! 
Hands  up  at  once ! ' ' 

The  sergeant  became  suddenly  aware  that  Cathal  was 
not  alone.  The  clattering  of  weapons  from  the  ferns  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  gazed  in  that  direction  and  saw 
the  growth  bristling  with  weapons.  Half-a-dozen  weapons 
were  pointed  at  his  face. 

"Well,  we're  right  in  the  soup!"  he  said,  shooting  both 
arms  over  his  head.  "Up  with  your  hands,  boys.  It's  the- 
only  thing  to  do!" 

Seven  pair  of  hands  went  up  in  the  air  while  from  their 
ferny  fastness  the  masked  figures  looked  on. 

"Three  of  you  men,  out  and  take  their  arms  away  from 
them,"  Cathal  Cassidy  ordered;  and  three  men,  the  thick- 
set Columb  Ruagh,  the  lithe  McKelvie  and  the  young  strip- 
ling, Donnel,  came  out  on  the  roadway  and  took  the  rifles 
from  the  men  in  khaki.  They  placed  these  on  the  road  then 
stood  to  attention  and  gazed  at  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"That's  right,"  said  Cathal.  "Three  more  men  come 
out  and  take  these  weapons  away." 

With  these  words  he  came  forward  and  faced  the  sol- 
diers. 

"I'm  sorry  that  we've  to  put  you  to  all  this  incon- 
venience, sergeant,"  he  said.  "But  it's  the  fortune  of  war. 
We  have  the  upper  hand  to-day,  to-morrow  it  may  be 
yours.  You  have  the  advantage,  for  though  you  have  in- 
vaded a  country,  its  people  treat  you  courteously  when 
you're  in  their  power.  To-day  we  put  a  rope  round  your 
arms  and  legs  but  to-morrow  if  you  grip  one  of  us  we  get 
the  same  kind  iv  a  rope  tied  round  our  necks. ' ' 

He  turned  round,  looked  at  the  masked  figures  in  the 
ferns. 

"Tie  up  these  men,"  he  said  in  a  brisk  tone  of  command, 
pointing  at  the  soldiers.  A  bundle  of  ropes  was  carried 
into  the  center  of  the  road,  and  with  these  the  Sein  Feinere 
proceeded  to  bind  the  soldiers  of  the  Garrison. 

McKelvie  took  a  youngster  in  hand,  a  pale,  flaxen-haired 
boy,  the  down  on  a  virginal  chin  free  as  yet  from  the  razor, 


234  MAUREEN 

wearing  three  chevrons  of  service  on  one  arm  and  two 
wound  stripes  on  the  other.  McKelvie  bound  the  two 
arms  together. 

"If  I'm  squeezing  too  tight  let  me  know,  matey,"  said 
McKelvie  from  behind  his  mask,  an  empty  flour-poke  with 
two  square  holes  cut  in  it  for  the  eyes.  "If  ye've  copped 
a  packet  in  yer  arms  or  legs  let  me  know." 

"Got  it  in  the  back,"  said  the  youngster. 

"Sniper?"  inquired  the  voice  behind  the  flour-poke. 

"Shrapnel,"  said  the  boy. 

' '  Couldn  't  work  yer  ticket  on  it  ? "  asked  the  flour-poke. 

"They've  stopped  makin'  tickets  now,"  said  the  soldier 
with  a  good-humored  smile,  looking  at  his  thongs. 

"No  bong,"  said  McKelvie. 

"No  bloody  bong,"  said  the  youngster. 

"Well,  this  is  finee,"  said  McKelvie,  having  finished  rop- 
ing the  hands.  "Now  sit  down  on  this  hobeen  and  let  me 
do  up  yer  legs." 

The  youngster  sat  down  on  a  hob  by  the  roadside  and 
gave  McKelvie  his  legs,  requesting  the  Sein  Feiner  to  tie 
the  rope  high  up  near  the  knee  as  the  lower  parts  of  the 
legs  had  stopped  a  number  of  machine-gun  bullets. 

"What  part  iv  the  line?"  asked  the  flour-poke. 

"High  Wood." 

"Somme?" 

"The  Somme." 

"Tough  place,  that,"  said  McKelvie  with  the  air  of  one 
who  knows. 

"Were  you  there?"  asked  the  soldier. 

"Knew  a  fellow  that  was.  That's  all,"  said  McKelvie, 
suddenly  realizing  that  he  had  spoken  unwisely. 

' '  Fall  in, .  you  men, ' '  said  Cassidy  when  the  job  was 
complete. 

Forming  up  on  the  roadside,  the  Sein  Feiners  stood  at 
ease. 

"Party!"  Cathal  ordered  and  the  heels  of  the  heavy 
hobnailed  boots  (one  pair  military  which  had  ground  tht 
cobbles  of  Picardy  and  Pas  de  Calais)  clicked  together. 

"Right  dress!     Cover  off,  rear  rank!" 


SEIN  FEINERS  235 

The  masked  figures  sprang  to  it,  assorting  themselves 
with  the  precision  of  men  used  to  the  tenets  of  drill;  in 
gait  and  attitude  soldiers,  in  dress  country  yokels  who  had 
just  come  away  from  the  grind  of  husbandry. 

"Number!" 

"Ahn!    Deoc!    Trur!    Carra!    Cuigead!    Seacktal" 

"Move  to  the  right  in  fours!    Form  fours!" 

The  men  formed  into  fours,  indifferent  as  wooden  sol- 
diers to  the  men  who  lay,  tethered  and  spancelled,  under 
Carrig-drim. 

"By  the  left!  Quick  March!"  the  leader  ordered,  and 
the  men  marched  off,  shoulders  squared,  heads  erect  and 
eyes  to  front.  The  soldiers  of  the  Garrison  writhed  round 
on  their  sides  and  watched  the  Sein  Feiners  depart.  From 
the  distance  came  the  order  to  slope  arms  and  with  a 
simultaneous  movement,  the  precision  of  a  machine,  the 
weapons  swung  from  the  trail  to  the  shoulder. 

"Some  soldiers,"  said  a  soldier,  admiration  in  his  voice. 

"Posh  wallahs!"  said  the  youth  whom  McKelvie  had 
girt. 

"Well,  we  couldn't  do  anything  but  what  we  done," 
said  the  sergeant,  who  in  anticipation  was  already  in  front 
of  a  court  martial  giving  an  explanation  of  the  incident. 

m 

Revolution,  no  matter  what  its  end,  aim  or  purpose,  has 
its  deformities  as  well  as  its  beauties,  in  the  same  way  as 
the  choicest  fruit  has  its  worm  and  the  snuggest  roof  its 
downdrop.  Just  as  war  has  its  pillagers,  profiteers  and 
sutlers,  religion  its  quacks,  shufflers  and  impostors,  so 
revolution  has  its  tricksters,  charlatans  and  knaves.  To 
this  latter  category  of  men  belonged  Columb  Ruagh  Kee- 
ran. 

With  Columb  greed  was  the  predominant  passion.  To 
this  everything  was  subservient.  He  was  the  Grand  Miser, 
loving  his  money  as  a  sensualist  his  mistress,  a  collector 
of  antiques  his  curios,  a  writer  his  books  and  a  painter  his 
pictures,  for  after  all  most  men  are  misers  at  bottom. 


236  MAUREEN 

Everything  done  by  Columb  was  towards  a  certain  end, 
and  with  one  object  in  view  he  suited  his  moods  to  differ- 
ent occasions  and  appeared  in  different  form  to  all  with 
whom  he  had  dealings.  To  Mr.  Brogan  Columb  was  a 
blackmailer,  to  Cathal  Cassidy  not  a  bad  stick  but  funny 
in  his  ways,  to  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  an  old  vagabond,  to 
the  tinkers  who  on  one  memorable  occasion  occupied  the 
house  at  Crinnan  cross-roads  Columb  was  a  mad  roaring 
bull  of  a  man,  to  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  a  deep-dyed  rascal 
who  embraced  you  like  a  brother  while  his  hand  was  in 
your  pocket.  But  as  Coy  was  old  and  doating  no  one 
paid  much  heed  to  his  talk. 

However,  despite  the  varied  opinions  held  concerning 
his  character,  Columb  was  now  a  man  of  money.  His 
wealth  grew  and  grew;  copper  coin  became  silver  and  the 
silver  gold.  And  the  more  it  increased  the  greater  grew 
the  grip  of  greed.  Money  was  everything  to  the  man,  his 
labor  and  recreation,  his  food  physical  and  spiritual. 

With  Sein  Fein  in  the  ascendancy,  Columb  felt  that  it 
was  wise  to  belong  to  the  party.  But  to  belong  to  this  he 
had  to  pay  an  entrance  fee  of  one  shilling,  and  a  shilling 
was  a  big  sum.  If  he  gave  it  the  Sein  Feiners  would  prob- 
ably increase  their  custom.  At  present  there  was  another 
illicit  distiller  in  Drimeeney,  a  Sein  Feiner.  This  man  was 
not  as  good  in  the  art  as  Columb.  Still  he  was  a  Sein 
Feiner,  and  those  of  his  ilk  went  preferably  to  this  man. 

Columb  took  a  shilling  from  his  store,  looked  at  it,  felt 
it  between  forefinger  and  thumb,  put  it  in  his  mouth,  ran 
it  between  his  teeth,  took  it  out  again,  spittle  wet,  put  it  on 
the  leaf  of  his  hand  and  surveyed  it  with  a  sigh.  It  was  a 
shilling,  a  disk  with  form,  color,  and  outline.  It  would 
certainly  bring  in  others  if  given  to  the  Sein  Fein  party. 
But  even  then  that  shilling  would  probably  never  come 
back  again.  It  would  go,  and  it  would  be  lost  forever. 
Still,  there  was  the  Drimeeney  man  making  money  from 
the  sale  of  potheen,  and  if  a  shilling  could  turn  trade  in 
Columb 's  direction  it  was  worth  while  speculating  it. 
Columb  paid. 

He  was  also  a  waterkeeper.     But  that  was  a  blind.    A 


SEIN  FEINERS  237 

waterkeeper  was  never  suspect  in  the  eyes  of  the  Govern- 
ment. Columb  drew  pay  for  this  job,  but  never  inter- 
fered with  the  young  men  who  burned  the  river  in  the 
spawning  season. 

Following  the  incident  of  the  raid,  Crinnan,  at  the  back 
of  Godspeed,  a  fastness  beyond  police  reach,  became  the 
depository  of  the  rifles  taken  from  the  soldiers  of  the  Army 
of  Occupation,  and  Columb  was  appointed  warden  of 
the  arms. 

IV 

The  home  of  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  was  some  distance 
back  from  the  country  road,  so  when  the  August  fair  of 
Stranarachary  came  round  he  straddled  down  the  brae  in 
the  fall  of  dusk  and  came  to  the  house  of  Condy  Heelagh. 
Here  in  the  wayside  cabin  people  would  drop  in  for  a 
while  on  their  way  home  from  market,  and  here  Coy, 
whose  legs  were  now  too  weak  for  a  long  journey,  could  sit 
down  and  listen  to  the  talk  of  the  day.  The  older  people 
were  coming  back  from  the  fair  now,  the  young  would  not 
be  back  for  some  time  yet.  The  night  was  very  wet,  and 
a  heavy  rain  was  splattering  on  the  roadway. 

Condy  Heelagh  and  Peggy  Eibbig  were  sitting  by  the 
fire,  the  woman  knitting  a  sock,  the  old  bent-back  husband 
looking  at  the  flames.  He  had  now  given  up  cobbling.  His 
eyes  were  getting  weak  and  his  age-gnarled  hand  had  lost 
its  cunning.  On  the  hob  was  a  kettle  singing  wearily,  and 
a  pot  of  stirabout  simmered  on  the  crook. 

' '  Coy  it  is ! ' '  said  Condy,  looking  up  when  the  old  man 
entered  the  door.  "Ye  must  be  hearty  on  it  to  sprawhle 
down  the  knowes  a  night  like  this  and  it  rainin'  heavens 
hard." 

"Ah!  it's  a  tough  journey  I've  put  over  me  coming 
down,"  said  Coy,  wagging  his  coat  like  a  pair  of  flight- 
weary  wings  and  splashing  the  rain  to  the  floor.  "It's 
old  bones  that  take  hard  to  the  knowes,  Condy  Heelagh." 

"True,"  said  Condy,  doddering  to  his  feet  and  holding 
his  hand  to  Coy.  "We're  gettin'  on  in  years,  the  two  iv 


238  MAUREEN 

us,  but  all  the  same  we've  seen  more  than  one  bottle  to 
the  bottom  in  our  day." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Coy,  setting  himself  down  in  the  chair 
which  Peggy  Ribbig  had  ceremoniously  placed  at  his  back. 
"We  were  once  young  on  it,  the  two  iv  us,  and  now  we're 
old  on  it  and,  and — " 

A  melancholy  feeling  welled  up  in  his  heart.  He  could 
not  finish  his  sentence,  and  a  tear  trickled  down  his  face. 

"Aye,  we're  all  iv  us  old  on  it,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig  sadly, 
feeling  that  Coy  would  find  some  consolation  in  being  in- 
formed that  his  plight  was  common  to  others.  A  tear  also 
came  from  her  eyes. 

"It's  always  the  same,  always,"  said  Condy,  with  a 
philosophic  nod  of  his  head  as  he  sat  down  again.  "Peo- 
ple will  be  for  a  wee  while,  and  then  they  go  like  leaves  iv 
a  tree.  But  anyway,  sit  down,  Coy" — Coy  was  already 
sitting — "and  have  a  skinful  iv  stirabout  and  a  ghabouge 
iv  milk  and  the  boys  will  be  in  from  the  fair  in  no  time 
from  now." 

"Well,  since  ye  ask  me,  Condy,  I'll  have  a  drop  iv  the 
stirabout,"  Coy  replied,  a  gleam  of  thanks  lighting  his 
filmy  eyes.  "For  mind  ye,  I'm  not  one  for  stirabout  now 
at  all,  but  seein'  that  Peggy  herself  has  made  it  I'll  have 
a  sup.  She's  second  to  none  with  the  pot-stick." 

"Well,  indeed,  Coy!"  said  Peggy,  accepting  the  com- 
pliment, but  by  her  tone  implying  that  if  she  excelled  in 
the  housewifely  art  of  making  stirabout  it  was  only  as  it 
should  be.  ' '  Some  women  make  it  one  way, ' '  she  went  on, 
"and  some  another.  But  it's  like  anything  else,  for  there's 
only  one  way  iv  doin'  it  right,  and  if  it's  made  any  other 
way  it's  wrong." 

"True,"  said  Coy,  "and  very  true.  But  they've  got  out 
iv  the  way  iv  makin'  it  now.  In  the  old  times — " 

"There  were  never  times  like  them,"  said  Condy  Hee- 
lagh,  taking  a  pipe  from  the  bowl  in  the  chimney  brace  and 
emptying  the  heel  tap  on  the  floor. 

"Never  times  like  them,"  said  Coy  sadly. 

"And  what  would  ye  like  best?"  asked  Peggy  as  she 


SEIN  FEINERS  239 

lifted  the  pot  from  the  crook.    "Butter-milk,  or  thick  milk, 
or  skim  milk,  or  sweet  milk?" 

She  spoke  with  pride.  So  many  varied  milks  spoke  of  a 
full  house. 

"Whatever  ye  like,"  said  Coy  gallantly.  "Whatever 
ye  put  down  afore  a  man  is  always  the  best. ' ' 

"But  there  was  no  times  like  the  old  times,"  said  Condy 
Heelagh,  who  still  was  pondering  over  a  subject  which 
Coy  had  now  probably  forgotten.  "Not  the  times  that  we 
saw,  maybe,  but  the  times  that  them  that  was  afore  us 
saw." 

"Ah,  them  were  the  times,"  said  Coy.  "Them  that  had 
my  own  name  and  are  no  more  were  in  their  days  men  of 
consideration  and  great  power,  with  lands  without  stint 
and  houses  iv  free  hospitality.  Muiris  Dunleavy  and  Cor- 
mac  Dunleavy  and  Dony  Dunleavy,  all  great  doctors,  and 
what  they  couldn  't  cure  nobody  else  in  Ireland  could  cure. ' ' 

Here  it  may  be  explained  that  Beeragh  was  not  Coy's 
family  name.  His  father,  Hugh  Dunleavy,  married  a 
widow  named  Mary  Fergus  Beeragh,  so  called  after  her 
man  that  was.  Three  weeks  after  the  second  marriage 
her  fresh  husband  died,  and  that  before  Dungarrow  could 
accustom  itself  to  call  the  woman  Dunleavy.  When  the 
second  husband  was  buried  the  woman  was  still  known  as 
Mary  Fergus  Beeragh,  and  Coy,  who  came  after,  was  from 
his  youth  upwards  known  to  the  people  by  the  name  which 
he  bore  now. 

"They  were  doctors  in  the  old  times,"  Coy  continued, 
in  his  hoarse,  wheezy  voice.  "I  mind  one  day  thirteen 
years  back  come  next  Hall 'eve  and  me  comin'  along  be  the 
road  from  Stranarachary,  I  met  Doctor  McHugh,  the  doc- 
tor that  then  was,  God  rest  him!" 

' '  '  Good  day  to  ye,  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh, '  says  he,  in  his 
free  and  easy  way  with  his  clay  pipe  in  his  gob  just  like 
one  iv  ourselves.  'One  iv  the  Dunleavy 's  ye  are,'  says 
he;  'and  an  old  family  that  was  not  without  merit  in  the 
days  that  were  long,  long  ago.' 

"  'And  is  to  this  day,'  says  I.    'For  in  land  and  stock 


240  MAUREEN 

we  can  show  a  holdin'  as  big  and  bigger  than  many's  a 
one  in  the  parish.' 

* '  '  But  I  don 't  mane  in  that  way, '  says  the  doctor.  '  What 
I  mane  is  this.  The  men  iv  yer  name  were  once  equal  to 
the  great  O'Donnels  themselves.' 

"  'And  are  to  this  day,'  I  cut  in  with.  'I  never  knew 
an  O'Donnel  yet  that  could  spit  across  my  arm  at  fair  or 
market. ' 

"As  I  said  this  he  looks  at  me.  'Why  don't  ye  wait  till 
I  finish  what  I'm  goin'  to  say?'  says  he.  'The  Dunleavys 
were  great  doctors  iv  medicine  in  the  old  days.  And  even 
now  there's  more  than  one  book  to  be  seen  in  the  world 
that  was  writ  by  them  about  physic  and  cures  for  decline, 
ringworm  and  what  not.' 

"  '  'Twas  the  first  I  ever  heard  iv  it,  doctor,'  says  I. 
'But  that  and  all  I'm  not  surprised,  for  is  not  a  woman 
that's  sib  iv  me  own,  Sally  Rourke  iv  Meenaroodagh  that 
knows  all  the  cures  iv  the  world  for  warts  and  sprains  and 
beelings,  the  greatest  doctor  that  we've  got  in  the  parish, 
and  her  mother,  cousin  iv  me  own  but  far  out,  a  Dun- 
leavy?'  " 

"Well,  that's  true,"  said  Peggy,  handing  Coy  a  bowl 
of  stirabout  drowned  in  milk.  "Just  put  this  inside  iv  ye 
now  and  it  will  warm  ye  up. ' ' 

"Thank  ye,  Peggy,  thank  ye,"  said  the  old  man,  catch- 
ing the  bowl  of  porridge,  placing  it  on  the  floor  and  getting 
to  his  feet.  He  gripped  the  woman's  hand.  "Thank  ye, 
Peggy,  thank  ye,"  he  said,  the  easy  tears  of  age  welling 
in  his  eyes.  "Thank  ye  kindly,  and  may  ye  have  many  a 
long  and  hearty  day  in  front  iv  ye  yet,  with  the  Pension 
comin'  every  Friday,  and  the  purse  in  the  petticoat  get- 
ting bigger  on  it  every  week  iv  the  year. ' ' 

"They'll  soon  be  no  pensions  at  all  if  they  keep  on  as 
they're  keepin*  in  Dungarrow  now,"  said  Peggy  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  her  head.  "It's  drillin'  and  marchin' 
and  tyin'  up  the  poor  soldiers  behind  the  hills,  and  them 
comin'  home  from  a  night's  heavy  work  at  the  railway." 

"And  serve  them  damned  well  right,"  said  a  voice  from 
the  doorwa7. 


SEIN  FEINERS  241 

Peggy,  Coy  and  Condy  fixed  a  startled  glance  on  the 
door  to  see  Corney  McKelvie  standing  there,  the  rain  seep- 
ing from  his  clothes  to  the  floor.  The  youngster  wore  no 
cap,  his  waistcoat  was  open  in  front,  its  buttons  gone  as  if 
it  had  been  pulled  apart  with  violent  hands.  In  his  fist 
he  carried  an  ash  plant. 

"Serve  them  damned  well  right,"  he  repeated.  "The 
Army  iv  Occupation!  What  right  have  they  to  be  here? 
That's  what  I'd  like  to  know!  What  right  have  they  to  be 
here?" 

"Was  there  a  fight?"  asked  Condy  from  his  corner. 

"A  damned  political  do,"  said  Corney,  sitting  down  on 
a  near  chair  and  getting  to  his  feet  almost  as  soon  as  he 
sat  down.  ' '  We  drew  it  across  them ! ' ' 

"God  help  us  all!"  exclaimed  Peggy.    "What  was  it?" 

At  that  instant  Anne,  the  unmarried  daughter,  came 
in,  her  shawl  drawn  tightly  round  her  head  and  the  hair 
that  hung  loosely  over  her  brow  beaded  with  raindrops. 

"They're  killin'  one  another  all  over  the  parish,"  said 
the  girl  angrily.  "It's  out  with  sticks  they  are,  all  the 
way  from  here  down  to  Stranarachary  and  goin'  for  one 
another  like  wild  bulls.  Yerself,  ye  fool,  was  in  it,  too, 
I'll  bet,"  said  Anne,  fixing  her  eyes  on  Corney. 

"The  order  was  'Over  the  top  and  the  best  of  luck'!" 
mumbled  Corney.  "And  over  we  went — " 

"Ye 're  drunk,  ye  omadhaun,"  said  Anne  with  a  scorn- 
ful curl  of  her  lips. 

"Drunk,"  said  the  boy.  "Vin  rouge  no  long.  But  or- 
ders are  out  on  the  polis  barracks!" 

"What  orders?"  asked  Condy. 

"They're  lookin'  for  informers,"  said  Corney  in  a  thick 
voice.  "Three  pounds  for  an  informer,  for  a  Carey." 

"Once  upon  a  time  in  the  days  that  used  to  be,"  said 
Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  who  was  again  sitting  down,  "there 
was  more  than  one  that  would  turn  traitor — " 

"What  kind  iv  informers?"  asked  Condy  Heelagh,  cut- 
ting across  the  preliminaries  of  Coy's  narrative. 

"It's  about  the  guns  that  were  took  off  iv  the  soldiers 
at  Drimacroom,"  said  Anne  as  she  took  off  her  shawl  and 


242  MAUREEN 

hung  it  on  the  beam  that  stretched  across  the  kitchen. 
"The  polis  have  a  notice  out  savin'  that  they'll  give  three 
pounds  for  every  gun  stole  from  the  red  coats.  No  ques- 
tions will  be  asked,  and  all  that's  to  be  done  by  a  man  is 
to  hand  them  in." 

"They're  on  the  look-out  for  traitors,"  said  Corney. 
"But  they  look  in  the  wrong  shop  when  they  come  to  Dun- 
garrow." 

"They'll  stop  the  Pensions,  anyway,"  said  Peggy  with  a 
sigh,  anticipating  the  worst. 

At  that  moment  several  newcomers  entered.  They  were 
mostly  young  men,  all  more  or  less  disheveled  and  all  drip- 
ping with  wet.  Cathal  Cassidy  was  there,  Liam  Logan, 
and  Fergus  Donnel.  All  looked  excited,  their  eyes  lit  with 
an  uncommon  brightness  and  all  armed  with  sticks.  The 
last  to  enter  was  Mr.  Brogan.  On  seeing  him  Peggy  Rib- 
big  gave  a  loud  shriek  and  sank  on  the  kitchen  bed.  And 
no  wonder!  A  streak  of  blood  showed  on  the  face  of  the 
scholar,  running  from  temple  to  lip,  and  dripping  on  the 
lapel  of  his  coat. 

Mr.  Brogan,  with  drooping  head,  staggered  to  a  chair, 
sat  down  and  stared  wearily  at  the  floor.  After  a  moment 
he  raised  his  eyes  and  fixed  a  puzzled  look  on  the  assem- 
bled company  with  an  absent  air  as  if  he  did  not  recognize 
anybody. 

"I  would  like  to  know  what's  comin'  over  the  people  iv 
the  place  at  all,"  said  Peggy,  getting  to  her  feet  and  look- 
ing helplessly  at  the  crowd  steaming  with  rain.  "What's 
comin'  over  everybody?  And  yerself  above  all,  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan.  An  old  Shanachie  and  out  fightin '.  And  there 's 
blood  on  yer  face,  too !  Put  a  cobweb  on  it  and  it  '11  stop 
it.  Every  one's  mad.  Sit  down,  the  whole  lot  iv  ye,  and 
have  a  drop  iv  tay!  Put  the  kettle  on  the  crook,  Anne. 
Ye  should  have  put  it  there  half  an  hour  ago.  You're 
white,  Eamon  na  Sgaddan!  Who  struck  ye?" 

"I  was  impeded  in  the  vicinity  of  Mull  a  Rudagh,"  be- 
gan Eamon.  "My  curiosity  was  aroused — " 

"Ye  got  a  crack  on  the  nose  because  ye  stuck  it  into  a 
business  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  ye,"  said  Corney  Me- 


SEIN  FEINERS  243 

Kelvie  angrily.  "It's  into  yer  house,  to  old  Cassie,  that 
ye  should  have  gone  hours  ago.  Comin '  out  with  us  young- 
sters !  Ye  should  have  more  sense  in  yer  head  than  be  out 
at  this  hour.  What  do  ye  think  iv  him,  Peggy  ? ' ' 

The  old  woman  was  now  perched  on  a  rickety  chair  grop- 
ing with  the  stock  of  the  old  gun,  which  was  again  behind 
the  rafters,  pulling  off  cobwebs. 

"Poor  old  Eamon 's  all  right  on  it  if  he  gets  this  cob- 
web on  his  cheek,"  said  the  woman.  "It'll  stop  the  bleed- 
in'.  But  it's  newins  for  him  to  be  out'caperin'  about  like 
a  youngster.  Now" — she  went  on,  coming  down  from 
her  perch,  the  sooty  cobweb  between  her  .finger  and  thumb, 
and  approaching  Eamon  na  Sgaddan — "now  hold  yer  head 
on  one  side  and  let  me  see  where  the  rascals  have  hit  ye." 

"A  slight  concussion  iv  the  head,"  said  Eamon,  bend- 
ing towards  Peggy.  As  he  did  so  the  blood  dropped  in  a 
stream  to  the  floor.  "It's  of  no  consequence.  I  should 
have  remained  indoors." 

"Well,  nothin'  will  ever  put  the  big  words  out  iv  yer 
head,  Mr.  Eamon,"  said  Peggy,  relieved  to  find  that  a 
blow  on  the  head  had  not  interfered  with  Eamon 's  schol- 
arly attainments.  ' '  Musha !  I  don 't  know  what  ye  're  talk- 
in'  about!  It's  not  a  big  cut  at  all.  Just  sit  down  and  it 
will  be  all  right.  There,  the  cobweb's  on!  Poor  dear, 
they  shouldn't  have  hit  ye  and  ye  so  simple!"  She  spoke 
as  if  to  a  child  with  a  cut  finger.  ' '  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and 
there'll  soon  be  a  drop  iv  tay  that  ye  can  put  down  into 
yer  belly  and  that  will  warm  ye." 

Eamon  sat  down  with  a  groan  and  looked  at  the  woman. 
His  face  was  very  white,  and  a  queer,  pained  expression 
had  settled  in  his  eyes.  The  cobweb  roll,  black  and  en- 
crusted with  soot,  looked  like  a  scab.  The  blood,  still  flow- 
ing down  the  man's  cheek,  gleamed  like  a  dark  blue  livid 
streak  as  the  light  caught  it. 

"Thank  ye  very  much,  Mrs.  Heelagh,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  staring  at  the  woman  as  if  trying  to  recall  some- 
thing. "Thank  ye  very  much  for  what  ye've  done  to  help 
me.  I  don 't  deserve  such  kindness.  .  .  .  Now  I  '11  get  home. 
Herself  will  be  waitin'  for  me  and  I'm  late.  Thank  ye 


244  MAUREEN 

again,  Mrs.  Heelagh,  and  thank  ye  all  at  the  same  time. 
Good  night  t'ye  and  thank  ye  all." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  made  his  way  unsteadily  towards 
the  door. 

"Wait  for  the  tay,  Eamon,"  said  Peggy  Eibbig.  "It's 
on  the  fire  and  it'll  soon  be  on  the  boil.  Is  it  on  the  boil  yet, 
Anne?  Ye  should  have  it  on  all  night.  Ye 're  always 
slow." 

"Don't  trouble  about  me,  Mrs.  Heelagh,"  said  Eamon, 
leaning  against  the  wall  as  if  unable  to  proceed  any  fur- 
ther. "I'll  get  up  the  brae  and  get  to  bed.  Good  night," 
he  mumbled.  "Good  night  to  all  iv  ye." 

"It's  not  out  iv  this  house  that  ye 're  goin'  the  night  till 
ye  have  at  laste  one  drop  iv  tay, ' '  said  Peggy.  ' '  What  are 
ye  lookin'  at,  Anne !  Put  some  more  turf  on  the  fire.  And 
yerself  come  up  be  the  fire  and  sit  down  again, ' '  the  woman 
went  on,  gripping  Eamon  by  the  shoulder  and  gently  pull- 
ing him  back.  "D'ye  think  that  we're  goin'  to  let  ye  out 
iv  the  house  that  way !  Come,  sit  down  and  make  yerself 
at  home!" 

"Cbme,  Eamon,  and  sit  down  and  have  the  drop  iv  tay," 
said  Cathal  Cassidy,  catching  Eamon 's  arm.  "Ye  don't 
look  at  all  well,  but  if  ye  have  a  drop  iv  tay  it'll  warm  ye, 
man ;  and  ye  '11  be  all  right. ' ' 

"Just  as  much  as  will  wet  the  lips  even,"  said  Corney 
McKelvie  feelingly.  The  young  man  seemed  suddenly  to 
realize  that  Mr.  Brogan  was  in  a  serious  state. 

"There's  nothin'  like  tay,"  said  Fergus  Donnel.  "And 
on  a  night  like  the  night,  anyway!" 

"Anne,  Anne,  hurry  up  and  pull  out  the  greeshaugh 
from  the  hob,"  Peggy  wailed,  placing  Mr.  Brogan  on  the 
chair  and  looking  at  her  daughter.  "Pull  the  greeshaugh 
out  with  the  tongs  and  put  the  taypot  on  it." 

Mr.  Brogan  looked  round  the  kitchen  again,  touched  the 
cobweb  tenderly  with  his  forefinger  and  shivered. 

"Who  hit  him?"  asked  Condy  Heelagh  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Cathal.  "The  last  I 
saw  of  him  was  comin'  from  Stranarachary.  He  was  walk- 


SEIN  FEINERS  245 

in*  along  by  himself,  and  the  Drimeeney  boys  were  wantin* 
to  fight  everybody,  and  there  was  no  time  to  spare  for 
anybody.  They  will  want  to  fight!" 

"They  were  to  clear  the  town  iv  Sein  Feiners,  by  their 
way  iv  talkin',''  said  Corney  McKelvie.  "But  did  they?" 

As  he  spoke  he  got  to  his  feet,  waved  his  stick  in  the 
air  and  sat  down  again. 

"But  did  they?"  he  repeated. 

"Why  will  the  people  keep  fightin'  one  with  the  other?" 
asked  Cathal  Cassidy  sadly.  "No  good  will  ever  come  iv 
it  if  they  go  on  like  this.  .  .  .  Do  ye  know  who  hit  ye  at 
all?"  he  asked,  looking  at  Mr.  Brogan. 

"I  don't  know  at  all,"  said  Eamon  with  a  shake  of  his 
head.  "I  was  proceedin'  past  Mull  a  Rudagh  and  some- 
thing came  out  from  the  side  of  the  road,  from  the  bushes, 
and  I  was  hit,  I  suppose.  Anyway  the  next  thing  I  mind 
was  to  find  meself  lyin'  in  the  ditch  with  a  pain  in  my 
head  and  the  blood  runnin'  down." 

"The  vagabone,  whoever  it  was!"  said  Condy  Heelagh. 

"God  knows  what  the  place  is  comin'  to,"  said  Peggy 
Ribbig,  lifting  the  teapot  from  the  hob. 

"  'Twas  a  wild  night  with  the  fightin',  anyway,"  said 
Fergus  Donnel.  "The  man  that  was  after  the  Drimeeney 
ones,  and  after  them  well  was  Columb  Ruagh." 

Mr.  Brogan  gave  a  slight  start  and  a  tremor  shook  his 
frame. 

"It's  the  shivers  that  ye  have,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig,  hand- 
ing Eamon  a  bowl  of  tea.  "Put  this  down  ye  and  it'll 
warm  the  inside  iv  ye." 

He  took  the  bowl,  drank  the  tea  and  then  got  to  his 
feet. 

"Good  night  to  all  iv  ye,"  he  said.  "Slan  leath,  Mrs. 
Heelagh,  and  thank  ye." 

"I'll  see  ye  up  the  brae,"  said  Cathal  Cassidy,  also  get- 
ting to  his  feet  and  going  to  the  door.  The  two  men  went 
out  together  into  the  rain. 


QREEN  RUSHES 

It's  now  for  me  a  petticoat  red 
And  a  whip  of  green  rushes, 
So  out  on  the  road  with  my  eyes  ahead 
For  the  lane  of  the  wild  thrushes. 
Who  was  it  saw  my  good  red  dress  f 
And  who  was  it  saw  me  dressing? 
'Twas  himself,  indeed,  and  none  the  lest, 
And  that  was  a  great  blessing! 

There's  many  the  rush  in  a  whip  that't  long, 

In  a  whip  of  green  rushes! 

There's  many  a  song  and  them  all  in  song, 

In  the  lane  of  the  wild  thrushes. 

What  wouldn't  they  give  for  a  petticoat  red? 

And  wouldn't  they  call  me  funny 

That's  more  for  the  dreams  that's  filling  my 

Than  a  crock  of  good  red  money  f 


347 


CHAPTER  VII 
EILEEN  CONROY 


THE  fair,  the  raid  and  other  events  which  came  to  dis- 
turb the  calm  of  the  parish  gradually  became  things 
of  the  past.  Dungarrow  had  told  of  itself  again,  and 
the  ordinary  tenor  of  life  pursued  its  sober  way. 

The  weather  cleared,  became  warm  and  dry,  and  the 
mown  hay  was  browning  in  the  holms  and  rising  in  hand- 
shakings and  trampcocks.  The  trout  died  at  the  bottom 
of  thirsty  wells,  the  big  brook  which  ran  down  the  braes 
of  Meenaroodagh  had  no  longer  a  head  of  water  to  foot 
the  steepest  fall;  the  River  Owenaruddagh  was  a  trickle, 
running  lazily  as  castor-oil  under  its  hazel-lined  broughs. 
It  was  a  drouth  of  uncommon  severity,  but  meet  for  the 
season  and  beneficent  for  the  corn  and  hay. 

Even  the  paste  of  the  notice  gummed  on  the  barracks' 
wall,  offering  a  reward  for  returned  rifles,  dried.  The  no- 
tice fell  off  but  was  not  put  up  again.  Why  this  notice 
was  not  replaced  gave  rise  to  a  little  conjecture.  One  said 
that  the  police  were  short  of  paste,  another  that  Dungar- 
row could  not  be  bought,  so  it  was  hardly  worth  while  put- 
ting such  notices  up,  and  a  third  suggested  that  there  was 
a  traitor,  which  remark  was  laughed  to  scorn.  But  pres- 
ently discussion  of  this  affair  lapsed.  The  people  were  too 
busy  and  had  no  time  for  idle  conjecture.  Good  weather 
must  not  be  put  to  loss  in  the  harvest  time. 

Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  was  at  work  in  the  fields  with  her 
scythe,  mowing  sward  on  sward  in  the  holm  which  bounded 
the  river.  Even  now,  despite  her  years,  she  was  as  good 

249" 


250  MAUREEN 

as  a  man  on  the  sned  and  could  set  her  blade  to  a  finer 
edge  than  many  a  trousered  mower. 

Mr.  Brogan  did  not  mow;  in  fact  since  the  night  of  the 
Stranarachary  fair  he  did  very  little.  About  ten  in  the 
morning  he  appeared,  walked  to  the  fields  with  unsteady 
gait,  busied  himself  for  a  while  shaking  the  newly  mown 
hay.  Then  he  would  sit  down  on  a  sward,  rest  there  for  a 
long  time,  while  the  swish  of  Cassie's  scythe  cut  through 
the  stillness  of  the  field.  The  woman  took  no  notice  of  her 
man;  did  not  even  reproach  him  for  his  idleness.  The 
spancells  that  chafed  his  limbs  for  the  first  seventeen  years 
of  his  life  were  things  of  the  past  now.  Mr.  Brogan,  since 
the  night  on  which  he  tempered  a  razor  by  Cassie's  bed- 
side, was  a  free  man,  and  master  in  his  own  house. 

But  things  of  even  greater  gravity  than  the  ties  of  mar- 
riage were  now  troubling  the  poor  man.  He  was  wasting, 
losing  weight  and  vitality.  The  sickness  had  laid  its  hold 
on  him.  Since  the  night  of  the  Stranarachary  fair  he  had 
not  been  the  same  man.  It  was  not  the  blow  on  the  temple 
that  mattered  so  much.  A  queer  sensation,  something  like 
a  little  feather  tickling,  was  now  making  itself  felt  over 
the  right  kidney.  This  tickle  ceased  when  he  moved  about 
in  the  open,  but  when  he  lay  down  at  night  it  increased. 
He  scratched  the  skin  without  easing  the  irritation. 

After  a  while  he  dropped  off  to  sleep,  but  the  slumber 
•was  a  troubled  one,  filled  with  nightmares.  In  the  morn- 
ing there  was  a  peculiar  taste  in  the  man 's  mouth,  a  weak- 
ness in  his  spine  which  kept  him  to  his  bed  for  a  good 
three  hours  after  his  woman  had  got  up  to  her  work. 

"When  he  examined  the  skin  which  hid  the  itch  in  the 
morning,  he  found  that  it  was  scarred  and  scored  a  little, 
which  showed  that  his  fingers  had  done  something  towards 
easing  the  irritation  while  he  slept. 

Never  before  the  fair  of  Stranarachary  had  the  man 
suffered  from  any  ailment  like  this,  and  as  to  its  cause  he 
had  not  the  slightest  theory  to  give.  What  gave  him  pain 
after  the  assault  was  the  blow  on  the  temple ;  this  now  had 
practically  become  well,  but  the  other  injury,  the  one  which 
caused  him  to  itch  under  the  skin,  did  not  make  itself  felt 


EILEEN  CONROY  251 

at  the  beginning,  though  now  it  was  gradually  growing 
worse.  Probably  he  had  fallen  on  a  stone,  possibly  he  had 
been  kicked  in  the  kidney.  Anyway,  whatever  happened, 
Mr.  Brogan  's  right  kidney  was  now  out  of  order.  The  itch 
went  at  last,  only  to  be  replaced  with  a  dull  pain  which 
gave  the  man  the  impression  that  some  foreign  substance 
had  been  stuffed  into  the  corner  of  his  belly. 

But  who  was  the  man  who  had  attacked  him  ?  Mr.  Bro- 
gan did  not  know;  a  blow  came  out  of  the  night,  felling 
him,  and  he  lost  tonsciousness,  unaware  who  dealt  the 
blow. 

Here  events  which  occurred  on  the  day  preceding  as 
well  as  the  day  on  which  the  fair  was  held  in  Stranarachary 
may  be  given. 


It  was  on  the  evening  preceding  the  day  of  the  fair  that 
the  Stranarachary  police  pinned  the  notice  on  the  bar- 
racks' wall  offering  a  price  for  the  rifles  taken  from  the 
Army  of  Occupation.  Columb  Ruagh,  who  happened  to 
be  in  the  village  buying  meal  seed  for  his  vat,  was  passing 
the  barracks  when  the  sergeant  and  two  men  were  pasting 
the  paper  to  the  wall. 

"What's  it  that  ye 're  puttin'  up  there?"  asked  Columb. 

The  sergeant  read  out  the  notice  to  the  man,  and  nobody 
being  about  at  the  time  Columb  caught  the  sergeant  by 
the  sleeve  and  told  him  to  come  inside  as  he  had  something 
to  say  to  him.  The  interview  was  a  long  one,  and  when 
Columb  went  home  at  midnight  across  the  hills  he  was  ac- 
companied by  a  man  in  plain  clothes,  and  this  man  hap- 
pened to  be  a  constable  from  Stranarachary. 

Columb  Ruagh  and  the  constable  went  back  to  the  police 
station  in  the  morning,  crossing  the  hills,  and  Eamon  na 
Sgaddan  saw  them.  He  had  got  up  early  and  went  to  look 
for  sheep,  stock  for  the  fair,  that  had  broken  their  tethers 
and  went  back  to  the  hills.  The  dawn  was  rising  dully, 
its  cold  glare  as  yet  unlit  by  the  luster  of  the  sun.  Blocks 
of  night  mist  lay  on  the  surface  of  the  bogs.  Mr.  Brogan 


252  MAUREEN 

was  standing  on  the  lap  of  the  Meenaroodagh  bog,  his  eyes 
taking  in  the  near  distance  on  the  look  for  his  sheep,  when 
a  sound  startled  him,  the  sough  of  a  foot  sinking  into  the 
marsh. 

Presently  out  from  a  block  of  mist  came  two  men,  Columb 
Ruagh  and  a  constable  in  plain  clothes,  both  carrying  rifles. 

Eamon  looked  another  way  as  if  he  did  not  see  the  men 
and  allowed  them  to  pass  in  silence.  That  night  when  re- 
turning from  the  fair,  Eamon  met  with  his  accident.  Pos- 
sibly the  scholar  knew  too  much. 

m 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  three  weeks  following  the  fair 
of  Stranarachary,  and  when  Mr.  Brogan  woke  from  his 
sleep  and  saw  the  sun  shining  through  the  window  he  had 
no  desire  to  rise  from  his  bed.  He  now  slept  by  himself  in 
the  room  adjoining  the  kitchen.  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal 
slept  in  the  other  room. 

The  woman  was  about  and  busy  straining  the  milk  and 
preparing  breakfast  before  going  out  to  church.  The  hay 
on  the  farm  was  all  lifted,  and  the  corn  was  in  stooks.  The 
weather  was  admirable. 

Mr.  Brogan  turned  on  his  side,  and  with  the  sound  of 
the  activities  of  the  next  room  in  his  ears  he  looked  round 
his  own  apartment.  At  one  angle  of  the  room  lay  a  pile 
of  turf  piled  up  against  the  wall,  near  it  was  a  chair,  with 
bottom  splintered  and  back  broken.  He  looked  at  the  bed 
with  the  varied  assortment  of  rags  which  made  a  covering 
for  him  and  then  took  out  a  pair  of  long,  bony  arms  from 
beneath  the  blankets  and  looked  at  them.  Their  thinness 
was  appalling.  Another  month's  sickness  and  the  skin 
would  be  withered  away,  he  thought,  leaving  nothing  but 
the  bones. 

As  he  looked  at  the  arms,  Mr.  Brogan  suddenly  realized 
that  he  was  going  to  die.  There  was  something  novel  in 
the  thought.  It  opened  up  a  wide  field  which  he  could 
cross  to  something  definite.  Up  till  now  he  was  ailing,  a 
man  who  merely  had  the  sickness  on  him,  who  might  get 


EILEEN  CONROY  253 

better  and  might  get  worse.  In  this  range  of  possibilities 
there  was  nothing  certain  and  assured.  But  now  with  the 
knowledge  of  death  in  his  head  there  was  a  certain  relief. 
Actions  if  any  which  he  dreaded  before  could  be  performed 
now. 

' '  Cassie ! "  he  called,  resting  his  elbow  on  the  pillow  and 
his  face  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  what's  up  now?"  asked  the  woman,  coming  to 
the  door. 

"Are  ye  goin'  to  Mass?"  asked  Eamon. 

"Not  this  mornin',"  said  Cassie.  "I'm  just  goin'  down 
to  Paddy  Friel  's  for  starch  and  soap  and  candles  and  flour. 
The  morrow's  the  day  iv  the  washin'." 

"Ye '11  pass  Cathal  Cassidy's  house  on  the  way,"  said 
Eamon. 

"Aye." 

"Tell  Cathal  if  ye  see  him  that  I  want  to  speak  to  him," 
said  Eamon.  "If  he'll  come  up  this  way  till  we've  a  talk." 

"What  d'ye  want  him  for?"  asked  Cassie.  "Be  the  way 
iv  it  ye '11  have  all  the  people  iv  the  parish  stravaigin'  all 
through  the  house." 

"If  ye  don't  tell  him  to  come  up,  I'll  get  from  my  bed 
and  go  down  myself,"  said  Eamon  in  a  weak  voice. 

"All  right,  ye  plaisham,  lie  down  and  I'll  tell  him  to 
come  up,"  said  the  woman. 

IV 

On  the  bed  lay  a  varied  assortment  of  rags,  bottom-worn 
trousers,  draggle-tailed  skirts,  petticoats  of  many  colors, 
crottle-gray,  bog-brown  and  sunburn-blue,  all  thinned  to 
such  threads  by  years  of  wear  that  they  could  no  more 
support  a  patch  than  a  rungless  ladder  could  support  a 
thatcher.  Eamon 's  everyday  clothes  were  there,  his  woolen 
wrapper,  his  shirt  and  corduroy  trousers,  even  his  socks, 
worn  at  heel  and  toe,  were  woven  into  the  ragged  web.  But 
despite  the  poverty  of  the  room,  the  dishevelment  of  the 
bed  and  its  drab  surroundings,  there  was  something  which 
caught  Cathal 's  eye  the  moment  he  entered,  something  that 


254  MAUREEN 

shone  in  the  obscurity  as  a  lone  star  often  shines  in  the 
darkest  night  when  all  other  lights  heavenly  and  earthly 
are  steeped  in  gloom.  This  was  Brogan's  dicky  and  tie. 
They  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  both  together,  a  symbol 
of  glory  that  was  gone  and  greatness  that  had  departed. 
And  under  this  heap  of  rags,  petticoats  and  patches,  which 
had  only  one  relieving  feature,  the  tie  and  dicky,  lay  the 
owner  of  the  tie  and  dicky,  Mr.  Brogan. 

On  hearing  the  door  creak  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and  looked 
at  the  visitor. 

"Mr.  Cassidy?"  he  inquired  in  a  weak  voice. 

"It's  me,  Eamon,"  said  Cathal  with  a  smile.  "Are  ye 
gettin'  better?" 

"I'm  progressing,"  said  Eamon  quietly.  "I  feel  empty 
inside  iv  me  somehow,  but  I've  no  desire  for  beverage. 
Cathal,  I  want  to  ask  ye  something, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Come  over 
here  to  the  bed,  please." 

"Iv  course,"  said  Cathal,  going  across  to  the  bed,  lean- 
ing both  hands  on  the  stock  and  looking  at  Eamon.  "I'll 
do  anything  in  me  power  to  help  ye,  Eamon." 

' '  Well,  I  want  to  know  one  thing  before  we  proceed  with 
others,"  said  Mr.  Brogan,  fixing  a  timid  glance  on  Cathal. 
"And  that  is,  did  you  see  her?" 

"Who?"  asked  Cathal. 

"Herself!" 

As  Eamon  said  this  something  in  his  tone  reminded 
Cathal  of  Peggy  Ribbig  speaking  of  the  Deity  whom  she 
feared  more  than  she  loved. 

"Cassie  Shemus  Meehal!"  said  Cathal.  "I've  just  met 
her  and  her  on  her  way,  be  the  look  of  it,  to  the  shop  for 
something. ' ' 

"Did  she  look  as  if  she  was  in  a  hurry?"  asked  Eamon, 
in  a  tone  of  mystery. 

"Just  much  as  usual,"  Cathal  replied.  "She's  always 
in  a  hurry  when  she's  doing  anything." 

"True,  true,  Mr.  Cassidy,"  said  Eamon  with  a  sigh. 
"Now  we'll  proceed  to  business." 

On  saying  this  the  invalid  sighed  several  times. 


EILEEN  CONROY  255 

"But  afore  that,  will  ye  look  out  be  the  window  and  see 
what 's  to  be  seen  on  the  road  ? "  he  inquired. 

Cathal  did  as  he  was  directed.  Then  he  came  back  to 
the  bed. 

"Nothin'  to  be  seen,"  he  said. 

"Nothing!" 

"Not  a  soul  about." 

"Herself  isn't  on  the  way  back  yet?"  asked  Eamon  in 
a  whisper. 

"No,  she's  not  down  at  the  shop  yet,"  said  Cathal,  won- 
dering what  Eamon  was  about.  True,  report  had  it,  and 
not  without  grounds,  that  Cassie  had  the  life  and  soul 
scared  from  her  husband.  However,  she  would  surely  not 
be  hard  on  a  sick  man.  But  probably  Eamon  was  suffer- 
ing from  delusions.  Sickness  so  often  makes  a  man  queer 
in  the  head,  Cathal  knew.  "She'll  not  be  back  here  for 
an  hour  at  least,"  he  assured  the  invalid,  who  now,  appar- 
ently deep  in  thought,  seemed  to  be  paying  no  heed  to 
Cathal. 

"An  hour,"  said  Mr.  Brogan,  awaking  after  a  lapse  of 
five  minutes  from  the  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
"An  hour!  Then  the  course  is  clear!  Listen!  .  .  .  Come 
closer  and  listen ! ' ' 

Cathal  drew  a  chair  to  the  bed  and  sat  down.  Mr.  Bro- 
gan eased  himself  upon  the  pillows,  stretched  his  neck 
forward  till  his  lips  rested  on  the  ear  of  Cathal  Cassidy. 

"It's  a  matter  that  has  been  the  curse  of  my  life  and 
the  curse  of  more  lives  than  mine  of  which  I'm  going  to 
speak,  Mr.  Cassidy,"  said  Eamon  in  a  low,  mysterious 
voice.  "The  ways  of  Providence  are  strange  and  beyond 
the  ken  of  our  philosophy.  Mr.  Cassidy,"  he  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, turning  from  a  deeper  subject  to  a  lighter  one, 
"what  is  your  opinion  of  dancing?" 

"I  think  there's  no  harm  in  it,"  said  Cathal.  "It's  a 
good  pastime." 

"I  grant  you  that,  Mr.  Cassidy,"  said  Eamon.  "It's  a 
good  pastime  while  it  is  a  pastime,  but  there  are  times  when 
it  leads  a  man  into  sin — " 


256  MAUREEN 

"We  are  all  weak,  Mr.  Brogan,"  said  Cathal. 
"But  some  are  weaker  than  others,"  Eamon  replied. 
"Just  have  another  look  through  the  window,  Cathal,  will 


The  young  man  rose  from  his  seat,  went  to  the  window, 
gazed  down  the  road  for  an  instant,  then  came  back  to  his 
chair  again. 

"She's  not  in  sight  yet,  Mr.  Brogan,"  he  said. 

"That  is  excellent,"  said  the  man  in  the  bed,  again  sit- 
ting up  and  bringing  his  mouth  close  to  CathaFs  ear. 
"That  is  good  .  .  .  the  course  is  clear.  .  .  .  The  man  who 
has  fallen  may  raise  his  head  from  the  mire,  but  not  me, 
Mr.  Cassidy.  In  my  youth  I  committed  a  grave  error,  a 
crime  against  God  and  man.  Passion  seized  me  and  I  fell. 
I  dropped  from  an  altitude  and  wallowed,  Mr.  Cassidy." 

Cathal's  gravity  gave  way  a  little.  Putting  his  hand 
on  his  mouth  he  feigned  a  burst  of  coughing. 

"A  cold  has  caught  me,"  he  said  as  he  battled  with  the 
rearrangement  of  his  features  to  a  pose  of  requisite  gravity. 
There  was  something  exceptionally  funny  in  Mr.  Brogan  's 
confession  as  he  lay  there,  curled  up  in  the  huddle  of  rags, 
his  head  wobbling  on  his  wizened  neck  like  a  big  cabbage 
on  an  attenuated  runt.* 

"I  have  fallen,"  Eamon  proceeded  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
the  remark  made  by  Cathal.  "I  have  fallen  far,  and  by 
that  fall  many  have  suffered.  If  I  was  the  only  one  who 
suffered  I  would  not  mind,  but  there  are  others.  .  .  .  There 
are  others,  Mr.  Cassidy  ;  there  are  others  !  '  ' 

"Don't  be  getting  into  a  flurry,  Eamon,"  said  Cathal  in 
an  effort  to  calm  the  man  who  was  now  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement.  "Just  lie  down  and  take  yer  aise.  Come 
the  morrow  you  '11  be  all  right  and  able  to  get  up  and  about 
with  the  best  of  them.  Everybody  that  I  know,  Eamon, 
has  the  best  opinion  of  ye.  Not  a  one  in  the  place  has  ever 
a  hard  word  to  say  against  ye,  at  all." 

"That's  because  they  walk  blindly,"  said  Eamon.  "I'm 
a  man  of  sin,  Mr.  Cassidy,  a'  man  of  sin.  And  I  have  money, 
too,  so  much,  and  it's  there!  Give  it  to  me,  Mr.  Cassidy. 
It's  there!" 


EILEEN  CONROY  257 

He  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  room 
where  the  heap  of  turf  was  piled  in  an  angle  of  the  wall. 

"It's  there!"  he  said.  "Turn  over  the  turf  and  yell 
get  it  in  under  and  it  in  a  box  with  an  old  shirt 
over  it.  Just  look  and  see,  Mr.  Cassidy.  But  mind  the 
window  first  and  tell  me  if  herself  is  on  the  road  back 
yet!" 

After  looking  out  and  assuring  Mr.  Brogan  that  Cassie 
Shemus  Meehal  was  not  yet  in  sight,  Cathal  proceeded  to 
turn  the  turf  over.  He  did  the  work  mechanically,  with 
the  sole  idea  of  humoring  the  sick  man,  and  was  surprised 
when  he  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  heap  to  find  there  a 
bundle  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  rag. 

"Is  this  what  ye  mane?"  he  asked,  showing  it  to  the 
sick  man. 

"That's  it,"  said  Eamon  in  excited  tones.  "Open  it 
now,  and  see  what's  inside." 

Cathal  took  it  up  to  the  bedside,  unshirted  the  parcel, 
and  disclosed  to  view  a  little  tin  box  which  had  once  been 
used  by  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  to  store  tea.  He  had  seen 
this  box  on  the  last  occasion  that  he  visited  the  house,  nine 
years  before. 

"Open  the  box  and  disclose  the  treasure,"  said  Mr.  Bro- 
gan. 

Cathal  raised  the  lid.  Under  it  was  a  pile  of  wool  packed 
tightly.  He  lifted  the  wool,  to  find  beneath  it  a  nest  of 
sovereigns. 

"All  my  own,"  said  Eamon  excitedly,  reaching  for  the 
box.  "Fifty  pounds  here.  Fifty  pounds  in  gold." 

He  emptied  the  money  in  his  hand,  then  without  count- 
ing it  he  put  it  back  again  in  the  box  and  replaced  the 
wool. 

"Put  it  in  yer  pocket,  Mr.  Cassidy,"  he  said.  "Plank 
the  lid  on  and  put  it  in  yer  pocket,  in  yer  breast  pocket, 
and  put  a  safety  pin  if  ye  have  one,  and  keep  it  from  fall- 
in'  out." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  keep  this,"  said  Cathal.  "I  may 
lose  it  and  then  when  you  want  it  back  I'll  not  have  it  to 
give  you.  I  '11  tell  yer  what  I  '11  do,  Mr.  Brogan.  I  '11  keep 


258  MAUREEN 

it  till  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  comes  back  from  the  shop 
and  then  I'll  give  it  to  her." 

"Put  it  in  yer  pocket  to  please  me,"  said  Eamon  in  a 
hoarse  voice.  "Into  yer  pocket  and  I'll  tell  ye  who  ye 're 
to  give  it  to.  I'm  a  vile  man,  Mr.  Cassidy,  and  Fate  was 
hard  on  me,  but  harder  on  others ! ' ' 

He  paused,  shook  himself,  and  lay  down.  His  face  was 
strangely  white,  and  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead. 
His  eyes  closed  as  if  shutting  out  the  world  for  a  moment 
while  he  contemplated  the  meaning  of  his  last  utterance. 
Cathal  held  the  box  in  his  hand  and  stared  at  the  lid.  Mr. 
Brogan  was  delirious,  he  thought,  and  recollected  that  the 
whims  of  a  sick  man  should  be  humored.  Mr.  Brogan  sat 
up  again  and  glanced  at  Cathal. 

"Mr.  Cassidy,"  he  said  abruptly,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
come  to  a  vital  decision.  "Mr.  Cassidy,  I  have  something 
to  tell  you.  I  trust  you  more  than  any  man  in  the  parish, 
than  any  man  in  the  world,  if  it  goes  to  that.  I  have  a 
bad  sickness  on  me  and  maybe  it's  not  long  for  this  world 
that  I  am.  I  see  everything  clear  as  day  now.  I  know 
what  to  do,  and  if  you  help  me  I  '11  die  easy.  Cathal,  that 
fifty  pounds,  all  that  I  can  get  my  hands  on,  I've  handed 
to  you  and  I  know  that  you'll  do  with  it  what  I  ask.  When 
I'm  dead  I'll  rest  easy — " 

"But  you're  not  going  to  die,  Eamon,"  said  Cathal. 
"The  morrow  ye '11  be  up  and  able  to  get  about  just  the 
same  as  any  one." 

Eamon  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  confidence  of  a 
man  who  knows  that  his  own  prophecy  is  certain. 

"When  I  know  that  I  helped  her  in  some  way,"  he  con- 
tinued, taking  up  the  thread  of  speech  where  Cathal  had 
interrupted  him.  "  Go  to  her  and  hand  her  the  fifty  pounds 
and  tell  her  that  it  was  from  a  man  that  owed  her  as  much 
and  a  million  times  more.  But  don't  give  her  my  name. 
It's  anonymous." 

"But  who  is  it?"  asked  Cathal. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  said  Eamon. 

"But  where  is  she  and  why?"  asked  Cathal  in  a  startled 


EILEEN  CONROY  259 

whisper.     "She  left  here  and  no  one  knows  where  she  is 
and  for  what  are  ye  giving  her  this  money?" 

"  'Twas  a  dance  at  Neddy  Og's,  one  Candlemas  nineteen 
years  ago,  and  I  had  a  drop  too  much,"  Eamon  said  in  a 
droning  voice  as  if  he  were  reciting  something  which  he 
prepared  long  beforehand. 

"  'Twasn't  her  fault  and  it  wasn't  mine.  Kathleen  Mai- 
ley,  so  proud  and  high  spirited,  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  me.  Many's  the  time  she  called  me  a  plaisham, 
and  what  did  it  matter  with  a  drunk  fool  that  had  no 
sense  in  his  head.  There  are  people  who  will  get  drunk 
by  mistake  and  them  havin'  no  taste  for  whisky.  That 
was  Kathleen  O'Malley  the  night  iv  the  dance  at  Neddy 
Og's.  And  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  the  child 
was  born." 

"Maureen  O'Malley!"  Cathal  exclaimed. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  Eamon  assented  in  a  whisper. 

"You?"  Cathal  inquired,  but  to  this  question  the  man 
gave  no  answer.  He  turned  his  back  to  Cathal,  pulled  a 
crottle-gray  petticoat  round  his  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 
Cathal  placed  the  box  on  the  bed  beside  the  dicky  and  tie 
and  went  to  the  window.  He  looked  along  the  road  where 
it  stretched  over  the  brown  moor  towards  the  sea.  On  it 
he  could  see  a  figure  in  gray  coming  towards  the  house. 
Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  was  coming  back.  Cathal  returned 
to  the  bed. 

"Is  it  the  truth  that  ye 're  telling?"  he  asked  in  a  falter-, 
ing  tone  as  if  something  was  choking  him. 

"The  honest  truth,"  said  Eamon  without  turning  round. 

"And  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel?" 

"  'Twas  only  the  people's  talk,  that." 

"But  are  ye  sure?" 

"Sure  as  I'm  lyin'  here,  Mr.  Cassidy,"  said  Eamon, 
twisting  his  neck  and  looking  at  Cathal  over  his  shoulder. 

"And  ye  let  her  go  out  into  the  world  without  one  penny 
piece  to  help  her — and  her  yer  daughter, ' '  said  Cathal,  his 
voice  rising  in  anger.  "And  ye  held  yer  head  up  all  the 
time  and  never  made  an  effort  to  save  her,  to  do  the  right 
thing.  And  now  ye  come  up  with  this  dirty  box  of  gold. 


260  MAUREEN 

Will  it  pay  the  girl  for  what  she  has  suffered,  and  for  what 
she  is  suffering  wherever  she  is  now?" 

"It  took  me  nineteen  years  to  save  the  money,"  said 
Eamon  in  a  piteous  voice.  "I  gave  up  the  smoking* for  to 
make  a  penny  here  and  a  penny  there.  And  then  I  had 
other  money  goin'  out  to  somebody  that  knew  me  to  be 
what  I  am  and  blackmailed  me." 

"And  served  ye  damned  well  right,"  thundered  Cathal. 
"Pretending  that  ye  were  this  and  that  and  what  not  and 
now  to  see  what  ye  are.  Oh !  Mother  iv  God !  Mother  iv 
God!" 

"I  make  no  excuses,"  Eamon  mumbled.  "I'm  a  scoun- 
drel, but  I  would  like  ye  to  take  that  money  with  ye  to 
her.  She's  beyond  the  mountains,  and  maybe  if  ye  go  to 
the  next  Strabane  fair  comin'  yell  see  her  there  and  give 
it  to  her.  Say  nothin'  at  all,  but  hand  it  to  her.  There, 
I  hear  a  foot  on  the  street.  It's  herself,  Mr.  Cassidy.  Put 
it  in  yer  pocket  and — quick,  Mr.  Cassidy,  there  she  is,  there 
she  is!" 

With  a  movement  almost  mechanical  Cathal  grabbed  the 
box  and  shoved  it  into  his  pocket  as  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal 
opened  the  door. 


In  the  corner  of  the  boreen  where  on  one  momentous  oc- 
casion nineteen  years  before  Mr.  Brogan  saw  the  light 
gleam  through  the  blind  of  the  Meehal 's  house,  Cathal  sat 
down  and  rested  his  head  in  his  hands.  Along  the  road 
he  could  see  the  people  on  their  way  to  Mass,  some  in 
groups,  others  singly,  all  bound  for  the  chapel  of  Stranara- 
chary.  An  hour  ago  Cathal  had  dressed  with  the  intention 
of  going  to  the  service,  but  now,  a  prey  to  irritation  and 
anguish,  he  decided  not  to  go. 

His  heart  was  filled  with  an  intense  repugnance  towards 
Eamon  na  Sgaddan.  That  this  pitiable  fool,  this  spineless 
creature,  should  be  the  father  of  Maureen!  There  was 
something  so  utterly  repulsive  in  the  confession  made  by 
the  sick  man,  something  so  humiliating  for  Maureen,  so 


EILEEN  CONROY  261 

maddening  for  Cathal  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  kept 
himself  in  the  shackles  of  restraint.  Mr.  Brogan,  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  the  parish,  the  butt  of  the  ribald,  the  slave  of 
a  mannish  wife,  and  the  father  of  Maureen!  Better  any- 
body than  he.  Maureen  was  put  to  shame  and  humiliated. 
The  harassing  impression  that  weighed  on  his  mind  caused 
Cathal  to  groan  with  anguish.  He  took  the  purse  of  money 
from  his  pocket,  gazed  at  it  with  a  shudder,  then  threw  it 
into  the  undergrowth  that  lined  the  lanes. 

Cathal  knew  from  his  school  days  that  Maureen  O 'Mai- 
ley  was  an  illegitimate  child  and  placing  his  faith  on  com- 
mon report  believed  that  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel  was  the 
father  of  his  sweetheart.  'That  Searlas  would  have  married 
Kathleen  if  Fate  had  spared  him  was  a  common  assump- 
tion, but  Searlas  died,  and  the  mishap,  a  committal  of  two, 
became  the  sufferance  and  dolor  of  one.  Obloquy  satisfies 
no  instinct,  even  the  vilest,  when  thrown  at  the  indifferent 
dead.  It  needs  something  living,  something  which  it  can 
tear  and  lacerate,  which  quivers  in  sensitive  anguish  at  a 
stroke  or  scratch!  Such  vituperative  contumely  fell  on 
Kathleen  O'Malley  and  through  her  on  the  girl,  Maureen, 
and  for  all  this  Mr.  Brogan  was  responsible.  But  could 
it  be  possible  ?  Cathal  questioned.  That  Mr.  Brogan  could 
be"  guilty  of  such  a  misdemeanor  savored  of  the  grotesque, 
but  it  must  have  been  true.  Else  why  this  astounding 
confession,  this  purse  of  fifty  pounds?  Was  Mr.  Brogan 
delirious  ? 

The  thought  of  the  scholar  became  suddenly  odious  to 
Cathal  Cassidy,  and  the  heart  of  the  young  man  was  filled 
with  bitter  resentment.  Searlas  Dhu  O'Friel  he  never 
condemned,  firstly  because  the  man  was  dead  and  secondly 
because  he  had  never  known  him.  In  the  third  place,  Mau- 
reen was  something  which  existed  for  Cathal  since  the 
beginning  of  things.  Knowing  everything,  as  he  thought, 
he  fell  in  love  with  her,  accepting  her  for  what  she  was, 
because  he  wanted  her. 

Now  Mr.  Brogan,  the  father  of  the  girl,  came  in  on 
Cathal's  consciousness  in  a  strange,  unexpected  form. 
Here  was  the  man  to  be  blamed,  the  man  whose  action  was 


262  MAUREEN 

in  a  measure  responsible  for  Cathal's  unhappiness,  and 
the  unhappiness  of  Maureen.  If  Mr.  Brogan  had  married 
Kathleen,  Maureen  would  never  have  run  away  and  hid- 
den herself  in  the  obscure  corners  of  the  world.  Perhaps 
even  now  she  was  suffering  with  pain  that  might  have  been 
averted  if  Eamon  Brogan  had  done  the  right  thing. 

"I  should  have  pulled  him  from  his  bed  and  strangled 
the  swine!"  said  Cathal  furiously,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
fixing  an  angry  gaze  on  the  house  that  he  had  just  left. 
Then  turning  round  he  saw  the  purse  which  he  had  thrown 
away.  Touching  it  mechanically  with  his  boot  he  turned 
it  over,  then  bent  down,  lifted  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

At  that  moment  he  heard  a  light  footstep  behind  him. 
It  was  Eileen  Conroy  on  her  way  to  Mass. 

"Cathal,"  she  said  in  a  low,  self-conscious  whisper, 
"who'd  have  thought  iv  meetin'  yerself  here !  I'm  late  for 
chapel  and  came  down  the  near  cut." 

"Aye,  Eileen,"  said  Cathal  absently,  a  strange  ring  of 
anguish  in  his  voice.  "But  ye 're  not  as  late  as  that." 

"Ye 're  comin',  too,  aren't  ye?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Not  the  day,"  said  Cathal,  looking  at  Eileen  with  child- 
like directness,  though  his  words  seemed  to  be  sticking  in 
his  throat. 

"Not  the  day,"  repeated  the  girl.  "And  ye 're  lookin' 
that  funny  on  it,  Cathal,"  she  went  on,  noticing  his  trou- 
bled expression.  "There's  nothin'  wrong  with  ye  at  all?" 

"Nothin',"  said  Cathal  in  the  same  troubled  voice. 

"But  ye 're  not  comin'  down  the  road,  then?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"Yes,  I  think  that  I'll  go,"  said  the  young  man,  shak- 
ing himself,  as  if  waking  up  to  the  performance  of  a  neces- 
sary duty.  "It'll  be  a  nice  walk  with  the  day  so  good." 

"It's  the  grand  weather  and  all  that  we're  havin'  now," 
said  Eileen.  "All  the  hay  in  in  the  parish,  bar  that  iv 
Sally  Rourke,  poor  woman,  with  nobody  to  help  her,  and 
maybe  it's  the  wet  weather  that'll  come  before  she  has  any 
iv  hers  saved." 

"But  some  iv  us  will  get  on  the  job  the  morrow,"  said 


EILEEN  CONROY  263 

Cathal,  struggling  to  evince  an  interest  in  something  which 
would  keep  his  mind  off  the  confession  which  Mr.  Brogan 
had  made.  ''Three  days  of  this  weather  will  help  to  save 
all  her  hay,  once  it 's  cut  down. ' ' 

"That  it  will,"  said  Eileen,  who  seemed,  like  Cathal,  to 
be  under  the  stress  of  some  peculiar  feeling.  When  she 
spoke  her  voice  sounded  husky,  the  words  it  fashioned  of 
no  import  but  seeming  to  be  squeezed  out  from  others  to 
which  she  dared  give  no  utterance. 

"Well,  I  hope  it  doesn't  rain,  anyway,"  said  Cathal, 
fixing  an  awkward  glance  on  the  pretty,  wavy  hair  of  the 
girl. 

"I  hope  the  same,"  said  Eileen. 

They  followed  the  boreen  to  the  main  road.  The  church- 
goers, the  last  save  Cathal  and  Eileen,  could  be  seen  turn- 
ing a  corner  half  a  mile  in  front. 

"We're  very  late,"  said  Eileen.  "The  Prayers  before 
Mass  will  be  past  be  the  time  we  get  there." 

"I  suppose  they  will,"  Cathal  replied,  with  a  gesture 
of  indifference.  "I'm  nearly  always  late,  anyway." 

They  walked  half  a  mile  in  silence.  From  the  distance 
came  the  sound  of  the  waves  breaking  over  the  rocky  teeth 
of  Gweenora  Bay,  and  suddenly  nearer  came  the  sonorous 
ring  of  the  church  bell. 

"We'll  hardly  be  in  time  for  the  first  Gospel,"  said 
Cathal.  "I  never  care  to  go  in  this  late." 

"Then  if  we  go  back?"  said  Eileen,  drawing  in  a  deep 
breath. 

"But  I  must  go,"  said  Cathal,  quickening  his  step. 

"And  ye  weren't  wantin'  to  go  much  at  all  when  we 
were  in  the  boreen,"  said  Eileen  in  a  petulant  tone. 

For  a  moment  Cathal  dropped  thought  of  the  confes- 
sion which  Eamon  na  Sgaddan  had  made  that  morning. 
He  looked  at  Eileen  and  fancied  he  saw  something  strange 
in  her  demeanor.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  and  she 
panted  a  little  as  she  tried  to  keep  pace  with  Cathal. 

"Am  I  goin'  too  quick  for  ye?"  he  asked,  slowing  his 
pace.  "It  doesn't  matter,  Eileen.  We'll  be  in  plenty  ir 


264  MAUREEN 

time,  anyway.  .  .  .     Won't  we  now?"  he  added,  seeing 
that  the  girl  did  not  answer  him. 

She  came  to  a  dead  stop,  looked  on  the  road  as  if  in 
quest  of  something  which  she  had  dropped  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"What's  wrong,  Eileen  Conroy?"  he  asked,  a  look  of 
concern  mantling  his  face.  "Has  any  one  done  anything 
to  ye?" 

"No  one,"  she  stammered.    "Cathal  Cassidy!" 

"What  is  it,  Eileen?" 

"I  want  to  tell  ye  something"  she  said  in  a  choking 
voice,  fumbling  with  the  corner  of  her  shawl. 

"Yes,  yes,  iv  course,  Eileen.  Whatever  it  is,"  he  stam- 
mered in  a  helpless  voice. 

"I'm  goin'  away  the  morrow,"  said  Eileen.  "I'm  goin' 
away  to  Strabane,  beyont  the  mountains.  I  had  word  from 
Maggie  Kurnew  and  her  place  is  a  good  one  and  they  want 
another  servant.  They  bought  a  new  farm,  the  people 
that  she's  with,  and  .  .  .  and  I'm  goin'." 

"It'll  be  better  there  than  here,"  said  Cathal,  relieved 
to  know  that  Eileen's  sorrows  were  of  such  light  character. 
"Maggie  Kurnew  has  stopped  two  years  in  the  place,"  he 
said,  "and  if,  when  you're  there — " 

He  stopped,  the  words  dying  on  his  lips,  but  Eileen 
guessed  what  he  was  going  to  say  and  a  look  of  intense 
agony  showed  on  her  face. 

"But  that  wasn't  what  I  was  goin'  to  tell  ye,"  said  the 
girl.  "It  was  somethin'  else,  and  I'll  not  tell  ye  now, 
Cathal  Cassidy." 

"Tell  it  to  me,  whatever  it  is,"  he  said  in  a  coaxing 
voice. 

"Never,  never,"  said  the  girl,  in  an  emphatic  tone. 
"Never  at  all  because,  Cathal  Cassidy,  ye 're  as  cruel  and 
cold  as  a  mountainy  stone.  Ye've  no  heart  at  all  in 
ye!" 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  burst  into 
further  tears,  and  turning,  went  back  the  way  she  had 
come. 


EILEEN  CONROY  265 

VI 

The  congregation  was  rising  to  the  first  Gospel  when 
Cathal,  unobserved,  entered  the  church.  The  white-haired 
Father  Dan  officiated.  The  Gospel  finished,  all  knelt  again. 
Though  Cathal  knelt  in  the  hind  seat,  the  near  worshipers, 
conscious  of  a  strange  presence,  turned  round,  and  their 
curious  eyes  set  in  moist,  swarthy  faces  made  him  feel 
very  uncomfortable.  It  seemed  as  if  these  were  aware  of 
all  that  had  taken  place  that  morning. 

He  turned  bead  after  bead  of  his  Rosary  mechanically, 
his  mind  a  whirlpool  of  complexity.  He  moved  his  lips 
in  the  formality  of  prayer,  but  his  thoughts  were  dwelling 
on  things  beyond  the  ken  of  explanation.  Everything  in 
the  church  was  to  Cathal  mysterious,  fantastic  and  for- 
eign. Confusion  and  mystery  had  broken  down  Cathal's 
world  of  verities.  There  was  nothing  true  and  stable. 
He  placed  his  Rosary  in  his  pocket  and  fixed  his  glance 
on  the  priest  who  in  the  incense-laden  atmosphere  seemed 
an  immeasurable  distance  away. 

He  looked  again  at  the  people  near  him.  All  were  happy 
and  hearty,  and  their  very  sighs  seemed  to  express  a  cer- 
tain thankfulness  for  some  luck  which  had  befallen  them. 
It  was  a  day  of  thanksgiving  to  God  for  the  weather  which 
he  had  sent  them,  for  the  corn  stacked  and  the  hay  saved. 
All  the  harvest  in  the  parish  with  the  exception  of  Sally 
Rourke's  was  garnered. 

The  Gospel  of  the  Day  was  read,  the  prayers  for  the 
living  and  the  dead  of  all  nations  and  in  particular  for 
those  lately  dead  in  the  parish.  Followed  a  short  sermon 
by  Father  Dan  who  took  for  his  text  the  third  Command- 
ment: "Remember  thou  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  Day." 

"A  Cara  Yeelish,"  said  the  priest.  "This  is  a  story  of 
a  thing  that  happened  once  on  a  time  when  the  Son  of  God, 
Jesus  Christ,  walked  this  earth  like  an  ordinary  man,  when 
he  healed  the  lepers,  comforted  the  afflicted  and  had  the 
kind  word  for  everybody,  even  for  those  that  were  taken 
in  sin.  It  was  on  the  Sabbath  Day  and  He  went  into  a 


266  MAUREEN 

house  where  the  Jews  gathered  together  on  the  Sabbath. 
Amongst  the  crowd  there  was  a  man  with  his  hand  withered. 
And  the  people  gathered  round  Christ  and  asked  him: 
'Is  it  lawful  to  heal  on  the  Sabbath  Day?'  They  were 
wanting  to  get  the  Son  of  God  into  a  corner  so  that  they 
might  accuse  Him  if  He  acted  contrary  to  the  law  of 
Moses.  Christ  when  he  heard  their  question,  answered 
saying:  'Now  if  any  of  you  had  one  sheep  and  it  fell  into 
a  hole  on  the  Sabbath  Day  would  you  not  take  it  out? 
Then  if  you  could  take  a  sheep  out,  why  not  help  a  man, 
for  he's  of  much  more  account  than  a  sheep?  So  there- 
fore it's  quite  lawful  to  do  well  on  a  Sabbath  Day.'  "With 
these  words  the  Son  of  God  looked  at  the  man  and  said, 
'Hold  out  your  hand/  and  the  man  did  so  and  Jesus  Christ 
made  it  as  well  as  the  other. 

"But  on  the  other  hand  if  a  man  wanted  to  go  out  into 
the  market  and  sell  a  sheep  at  a  good  profit  on  the  Sabbath 
Day,  do  you  think  that  Christ  would  look  with  favor  on 
the  job?  No  fear.  You  can  help  a  neighbor  on  the  Sab- 
bath Day,  but  you  are  not  allowed  to  trade  with  him,  for 
that  is  a  sin,  a  mortal  sin.  But  on  the  other  hand  it  is 
lawful  to  do  well. 

"Even  to-day  you  can  see  a  chance  of  doing  well  to  a 
neighbor,  especially  you  young  men  from  the  townlands 
of  Meenarood  and  Meenaroodagh.  You  all  passed  the  holms 
and  braes  on  Widow  Bourke's  farm,  and  you  all  saw  that 
the  good  woman  hasn't  a  cock  of  hay  up  or  a  stook  of  corn 
down.  Here's  a  chance  for  ye  all  to  get  your  scythes  and 
reap  a  path  to  Heaven. 

"Go  home  now,  when  this  wee  sermon  is  at  an  end,  get 
your  scythes,  thrust  up  yer  sleeves,  you  young  men  with 
shoulders  as  broad  as  a  half-door,  and  set  to  work  on 
Widow  Rourke's  farm,  and  cut  down  her  hay  and  corn. 
I'll  be  with  you  at  the  job,  for  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  hand 
at  the  mowing  myself,  just  to  show  you  that  your  old  parish 
priest  can  sharpen  a  scythe  and  cut  a  sward  with  the  best 
of  them!" 

Across  the  dyke  that  surrounded  the  church  was  the 
home  of  Father  Dan.  When  Mass  was  at  an  end  he  went 


EILEEN  CONROY  267 

towards  the  door,  but  on  seeing  Cathal  Cassidy  following 
him  he  stopped  and  waited  till  the  young  man  approached. 

"And  how  are  ye,  Cathal  Cassidy?"  asked  Father  Dan. 

"Rightly,  father,  thank  you,"  Cathal  replied. 

"And  Sein  Fein?"  asked  the  priest  with  a  smile.  "Is 
it  getting  on  well?" 

"It's  a  good  horse,  father,"  said  Cathal  symbolically. 

"But  will  they  not  break  it  in?"  asked  the  priest  in  a 
tone  of  banter.  The  old  man  kept  aloof  from  politics.  A 
fourth  of  his  parishioners  were  not  Sein  Feiners.  On  prin- 
ciple he  refrained  from  showing  sympathy  to  any  particu- 
lar party. 

"They're  tryin',"  said  Cathal,  "with  one  hundred 
thousand  bayonets.  It  is  the  kind  of  self-determination 
that  they  allow  a  small  nationality.  .  .  .  But  there 's  some- 
thin'  else  that  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about,  father,"  said 
Cathal.  ' '  That 's  if  you  have  the  time  to  spare. ' ' 

"Come  in  then,  and  sit  down  and  have  a  smoke,"  said 
the  priest,  opening  the  door  and  ushering  Cathal  in.  He 
showed  the  young  man  into  his  study,  where  a  number  of 
books  were  piled  in  all  conceivable  corners  and  where  the 
plates  for  the  man's  dinner  were  laid  out  on  a  table  in 
the  center  of  the  room.  The  old  man  placed  a  chair  for 
Cathal  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"And  have  a  smoke,  too,"  he  said,  putting  a  tobacco 
pouch  on  the  table  opposite  the  young  man. 

"I've  come  to  talk  t'ye  about  somethin',"  said  Cathal, 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  holding  it  in  the  fork 
of  his  hand.  "I  want  your  help  in  a  matter." 

' '  Tell  me  everything,  Cathal, ' '  said  the  priest,  his  kindly 
voice  grave  and  quiet.  "Just  speak  to  me  as  you  would 
to  yerself.  Whatever  ye  say  is  between  the  two  of  us." 

He  looked  at  the  young  man  as  he  spoke.  Cathal's  nos- 
trils quivered,  the  hand  which  held  the  pipe  shook,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  undergoing  some  great  internal  conflict. 
All  at  once,  and  without  saying  another  word,  he  got  to 
his  feet,  put  his  pipe  back  in  his  pocket,  took  out  the  ragged 
spring  purse  and  put  it  down  on  the  table  in  front  of  the 
priest. 


MAUREEN 

"What's  in  there  ?"  asked  the  old  man  in  a  voice  streaked 
with  curiosity. 

"Fifty  pounds,"  said  Cathal. 

"Then  you're  going  to  get  married,"  said  the  priest, 
jumping  to  a  pert  conclusion.  "It's  the  way  with  boys." 

"I'm  not  going  to  get  married,"  said  Cathal.  "That 
money  is  not  mine.  ...  It 's  money  for  Maureen  0  'Malley, 
•wherever  she  is." 

Then  with  some  effort  at  the  start,  but  with  a  growing 
sense  of  relief,  inspired  by  the  confidence  and  sympathy 
of  the  old  man,  Cathal  told  in  brief  the  confession  of  Mr. 
Brogan,  dwelling  at  some  length  on  the  pain  which  rankled 
in  his  heart  at  the  duplicity  of  the  scholar.  When  Cathal 
had  finished,  Father  Dan  rose  to  his  feet  and  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back  paced  up  and  down  the  room  several 
times.  Having  known  for  years  the  mishap  and  those  re- 
sponsible, the  boundaries  of  the  net  in  which  they  were 
held  and  the  circumstances  of  the  occasion,  Father  Dan 
had  long  since  arrived  at  a  certain  tolerant  decision,  which 
though  not  righting  a  wrong  did  much  towards  limiting 
its  effects.  The  results  of  a  mishap  were  in  a  measure 
modified  by  keeping  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  in  ignorance. 
Nothing  could  be  served  by  letting  the  woman  know  of  her 
husband 's  delinquencies. 

The  priest  seated  himself  again  and  looked  at  Cathal. 

"If  we  consider  this  case  from  what  is  known  to  all, 
what  do  we  find?"  he  asked,  then  continued  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer:  "Eamon  was  away  in  Scotland,  the 
last  time  he  ever  went  there ;  and  when  he  came  back,  what 
happened  ? ' ' 

"The  dirty  scoundrel  was  drunk  and  Cassie  Shemus 
Meehal  got  her  claws  on  him,"  said  Cathal  angrily,  whether 
with  Mr.  Brogan  or  his  wife  it  was  impossible  to  say.  "One 
of  them 's  bad  and  the  other  worse, ' '  he  went  on  in  an  angry 
voice.  "The  woman  greedy  as  the  devil  and  the  man  sly 
as  Satan.  A  crawlin'  snake,  that's  what  he  is,  making  the 
life  of  Maureen  that's  gone,  God  knows  where,  a  misery, 
a  hell  on  earth!'* 


EILEEN  CONROY  269 

Father  Dan  listened,  one  elbow  on  the  table,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand.  For  a  moment  he  was  silent.  Then, 
raising  his  head,  he  glanced  at  Cathal,  his  eyes  almost  stern 
in  their  gravity. 

' '  Do  you  know  the  Lord 's  Prayer,  Cathal  ? "  he  inquired. 

"I  do,"  said  the  young  man  bluntly.  "But  in  this  case 
it  serves  no  purpose." 

"...  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us, ' '  said  the  priest  in  a  calm,  grave  voice. 
' '  Has  it  ever  struck  you  what  that  means,  its  inner  signifi- 
cance?" 

' '  Of  course  it  has, ' '  was  the  obstinate  assertion  of  Cathal, 
who  felt  somewhat  annoyed  at  being  catechized  in  this  man- 
ner. "But  what  has  it  at  all  to  do  with  the  man  up 
there?" 

"This,"  said  the  priest.  "You  go  down  on  your  knees 
every  night  and  say  the  Lord's  Prayer.  You  ask  God  for 
pardon  of  your  own  sins  and  promise  in  recompense  to 
give  forgiveness  to  those  who  have  sinned  against  you. 
Call  it  a  contract  if  you  like,  and  if  you  do,  ask  yourself 
how  do  you  keep  your  part  of  the  bargain.  If  you  give  a 
man  your  word  at  the  Fair  over  the  sale  of  stock,  you'll 
keep  it,  but  when  you  give  your  word  to  God  you  don't 
keep  it.  Do  you  know,  Cathal  Cassidy" — Father  Dan  got 
to  his  feet — "do  you  know  that  Mr.  Brogan  shows  more 
Christian  feeling  than  you  do?  There's  proof  of  it" — he 
pointed  at  the  purse  which  lay  on  the  table.  "He  has 
scraped  and  pinched  to  gather  this  money  to  make  amends 
to  one  whom  he  has  wronged.  He  is  conscious  of  the  wrong 
that  he  has  done,  and  he  would  do  anything  to  right  it!" 

"He  has  been  a  long  while  in  righting  it,"  said  Cathal. 

"Maybe  he's  like  the  rest  of  us  in  many  ways,"  said 
Father  Dan  quietly.  "So  many  of  us  are  going  to  do  the 
right  thing.  We're  going  to  do  it  to-day,  but  we  leave  it 
off  till  to-morrow,  and  when  the  morrow  comes  we  leave 
it  off  till  the  day  after.  But  I  think  Eamon  Brogan  had 
more  backbone  than  most  people.  He  was  certain  of  his 
way.  He  gave  up  his  tobacco,  even,  and  that  for  nineteen 


270  MAUREEN 

years  to  do  the  right  thing  to  the  girl  whom  he  was  re- 
sponsible for.  Wouldn't  you  call  that  something  towards 
making  amends  for  a  transgression,  now?" 

"If  a  man's  in  my  position,  he  cannot  reason  as  calm 
as  you  can,  father,"  said  Cathal  resentfully. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  Maureen?"  asked  the  priest. 

"I  am,  father,"  said  Cathal  with  open  frankness. 

"And  you  don't  know  where  she  is?" 

"No." 

"And  you've  never  had  word  from  the  ones  that  goes 
to  Strabane  to  the  hiring-fairs  of  ever  seeing  her  there?" 
inquired  the  priest. 

"I've  never  seen  her,"  said  Cathal.  "And  I  go  to  the 
fair  three  times  a  year,  always  on  the  look-out  for  her. 
She's  lost,  gone  into  the  darkness  like  a  spark  up  a  chim- 
ney." 

Cathal  got  to  his  feet,  looked  at  Father  Dan,  then  with- 
out taking  the  purse  from  the  table,  without  even  saying 
a  word,  he  went  out  and  made  his  way  up  the  road  home. 

When  he  reached  Meenaroodagh  he  found  that  a  num- 
ber of  people  were  already  at  work  on  the  lift  of  the  brae 
behind  Sally  Rourke  's  house,  swart  men,  coatless  and  elbow- 
free,  breaking  the  front  of  the  meadow  with  gleaming 
scythes,  in  their  train  the  couchant  swaths  of  lush  grass. 
A  number  of  girls  who  had  come  out  to  shake  the  hay  were 
seated  at  the  butt  of  the  field,  chattering,  laughing  and 
making  merry.  One  was  singing,  and  Cathal  as  he  strode 
along  could  hear  the  words  of  her  song : 

"The  nations  have  fallen  and  thou  still  art  young, 

Thy  sun  is  but  rising  when  others  have  set, 

And  though  slavery's  cloud  o'er  thy  morning  hath  hung, 

The  full  noon  of  Freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet  I 

Erin,  my  Erin,  though  long  in  the  shade, 

Thy  star  shall  shine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  fade!" 

The  song  was  one  of  bitter  import,  of  wrongs  unforgot- 
ten,  of  indignities  which  the  body  forgets  but  the  soul 
remembers;  the  lash  which  lacerated  a  nation's  husk  but 
fanned  the  vitality  of  her  soul. 

The  song  that  brought  back  memories  of  the  past  to  the 


EILEEN  CONROY  271 

people,  spurring  them  forward  to  the  new  day,  the  fresh 
renascence,  gladding  their  hearts  towards  a  future,  struck 
a  chill  into  an  empty  void  when  it  fell  on  Cathal's  ears. 
A  past  recent  but  fearfully  remote  came  to  his  mind,  chill- 
ing him  with  the  gloom  of  despair.  The  song  was  one 
which  he  had  often  heard  sung  by  Maureen  O'Malley.  .  .  . 


THREE  ROSES 

On  her  breast  were  three  roses, 
And  she  stirred  the  stirabout-pot. 
"Where  have  you  got  the  roses, 
And  are  you  married  or  notf" 

The  sparks  sang  up  the  chimney — ; 
Her  brave  eyes  were  so  bright. 
A  pink  rose  and  a  red  rose 
And  a  rose  bog-blossom  white. 

"Where  did  I  get  the  roses? 
That's  what  I'll  tell  to  none, 
And  how  can  a  girl  be  married, 
And  her  by  herself  alonef" 

The  white  neck  in  my  elbow — 
The  tumbled  breasts  of  desire! 
And  the  roses  petal  by  petal 
Dropping  into  the  fire. 

The  white  and  the  pink  and  the  red  rote 
Sobbing  into  the  flame, 
One  couldn't  tell  where  they  went  to, 
One  couldn't  tell  whence  they  came. 


273 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  Two  GIRLS 


TWO  years  passed,  and  in  the  house  of  the  Fanner  Mc- 
Kenna  lived  the  girl  Maureen,  her  former  depression 
gone,  leaving  in  its  stead  the  dreamy  hopes  of  youth 
and  the  vague  desires  of  healthy  girlhood.  She  had  now 
grown  to  her  full  height,  a  comely  lass,  bright  and  agree- 
able, the  talk  of  the  Glen  of  Corngarrow  in  which  she 
found  herself  and  an  object  of  admiration  for  all  the  boys 
of  the  place. 

The  steading  was  a  good  one,  with  a  kind  mistress  and 
a  frank,  good-hearted  master.  When  Maureen  came  there, 
having  no  roof  for  her  head  otherwhere,  the  master  told 
her  to  remain  until  such  time  as  something  better  turned 
up.  She  could  help  the  Donegal  girl  already  there  to  do 
the  housework,  but  of  course  she  would  not  be  paid  any 
wages.  McKenna  was  a  poor  man.  One  servant  girl  was 
sufficient  for  the  household,  so  as  a  temporary  measure  he 
offered  to  keep  two,  feed  them  and  pay  wages  to  one.  But 
at  the  end  of  the  summer  term  the  girl  who  was  hired 
went  back  to  her  home  and  Maureen  stepped  into  her  shoes. 
From  then  she  had  remained  in  the  place. 

The  farm  was  excellent,  so  much  superior  to  the  houses 
of  Thornton  and  Baxter  that  Maureen,  accustoming  her- 
self to  the  place,  felt  quite  happy,  and  her  mind  pictured 
a  future  free  from  remorse  and  care.  The  past,  so  cold 
and  gloomy,  made  way  for  a  present  life  so  full  of  hope  that 
the  girl's  imagination  overflowed  with  life  and  light.  It 
was  good  to  be  alive,  to  be  young  and  happy. 

Betty  McKenna,  the  mistress,  took  to  the  girl,  watching 

275 


276  MAUREEN 

over  her  as  a  mother  might  do.  In  the  evening  the  house- 
hold went  down  on  its  knees  praying  together  in  Irish. 
The  farmer  was  proud  of  his  knowledge  of  the  ancient 
tongue. 

' '  Not  many  bar  me  and  herself, ' '  he  often  said,  ' '  knows 
the  old  tongue  in  Corngarrow.  It  is  fast  dying  out,  and 
that 's  a  bad  thing.  A  country  without  a  tongue  of  its  own 
is  like  a  man  that  hasn't  a  voice.  He's  dead,  and  a  coun- 
try that  can't  speak  its  own  tongue  is  dead,  dead  as  a 
nail." 

In  the  summer  Maureen  got  up  at  seven,  in  winter  she  got 
up  at  eight.  Then  she  milked  the  cows,  made  the  byres 
and  did  the  various  odd  jobs  of  the  farmyard.  Betty 
McKenna  did  the  work  of  the  household,  the  cooking,  wash- 
ing and  darning,  always  on  her  feet  early  and  late,  a 
hearty  woman,  vital  as  a  schoolgirl. 

Sunday  was  the  day  that  Maureen  loved.  Then  she 
could  go  to  Mass,  over  the  hills  to  the  little  chapel  of  Clid- 
dagh,  where  the  country  girls  gathered  together  and  spoke, 
as  girls  will  do,  of  their  various  love  affairs,  the  dances 
they  attended,  and  the  boys  whom  they  knew.  In  their 
company,  with  her  past  a  secret,  the  girl  felt  free  of  that 
restraint  which  cast  its  chill  over  her  when  she  lived  in 
Dungarrow. 

Still,  she  never  forgot  her  native  place.  It  constantly 
recurred  to  her,  the  life  she  had  known  there,  her  mother 
who  was  so  good  and  kind  and  unhappy,  her,  friend  Eileen 
Conroy,  and  her  lover  Cathal  Cassidy.  She  had  never 
heard  from  him  since  she  left,  since  she  disappeared  from 
his  life.  Probably  he  did  not  know  what  had  happened  to 
her.  There  was  no  one  to  tell  him  of  her  whereabouts  and 
her  life  beyond  the  mountains. 

Since  she  had  come  to  McKenna 's  she  had  never  left  the 
place,  never  gone  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  parish. 
When  other  girls  went  away  from  their  places  to  the  hiring- 
fairs  of  Omagh  and  Strabane  she  remained  in  her  house. 
She  did  not  want  to  see  the  Dungarrow  people  if  any  of 
them  happened  to  come  to  the  fair.  Old  acquaintanceship 
was  not  to  be  renewed.  She  had  cut  herself  off  from  the 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  277 

friends  and  enemies  of  her  youth  for  good,  and  forgetful- 
ness  slow  but  sure  nipped  at  the  fabric  of  sorrow,  tearing 
it  away  bit  by  bit  until  scarce  a  trace  remained.  She  still 
prayed  for  her  mother,  but  the  keen  anguish  and  bitterness 
of  two  years  ago  had  become  dulled  and  insensible.  Even 
Cathal  was  now  nothing  more  than  a  sweet  remembrance. 
Grief  and  love  need  their  fuel  or  both  die  out  and  are 
obliterated. 

The  girl  was  known  to  the  McKennas  as  Maureen  O  'Mai- 
ley.  She  had  been  in  the  house  for  a  week,  living  under  an 
assumed  name,  when  the  wrong  of  her  falsehood  struck  her 
forcibly  and  she  went  to  the  good  woman  of  the  house  and 
confessed  her  pardonable  duplicity.  When  the  confession 
came  to  an  end  the  woman  caught  the  girl  to  her  bosom 
and  burst  into  tears.  Then  Betty  McKenna  went  to  her 
husband  and  told  him  the  true  story  of  the  unhappy  girl. 
He  listened  in  silence  until  the  woman  had  finished,  then 
getting  to  his  feet  he  struck  one  toil-bitten  hand  against 
another  and  exclaimed: 

"That  Donegal  girl  goes  out  from  this  house  when  she 
wants  to  go  and  not  before.  I  like  the  look  of  the  cub's 
face." 


It  was  coming  near  the  end  of  August.  Two  years  had 
now  passed  since  the  day  on  which  Maureen  O'Malley  stole 
away  from  the  parish  of  Dungarrow. 

"Go  down  to  Saugh  Faddagh,"  said  Betty  McKenna 
one  morning,  "and  take  the  cows  with  ye,  Maureen,  and 
put  them  in  there  afore  milkin '  time. ' ' 

Maureen  loosed  the  cows  from  the  byre  and  drove  them 
along  the  field-path,  scarcely  traceable  amidst  the  grasses. 
The  songs  of  birds  filled  the  hedgerows,  and  the  sky  above, 
pale  and  cool,  was  filled  with  a  million  striped  clouds, 
filling,  forming  and  fading  away.  Long  filaments  of 
spider  webs  stretched  on  the  branches  and  the  grass,  float- 
ing in  the  air  and  brushing  against  the  girl's  face.  The 
lane  was  a  path  of  daisies  that  peeped  from  amidst  the 


278  MAUREEN 

grasses,  their  big  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl.  In  front  the 
cows  paced  soberly  along,  waving  their  tails  lazily,  as  if 
they  had  not  yet  fully  awakened  from  their  night's  sleep. 

She  drove  them  into  the  Saugh  Faddagh,  closed  the  gap 
behind  them  and  leant  a  moment  on  the  rail  taking  stock 
of  the  country  in  front.  Field  after  field,  the  country 
stretched  away  into  illimitable  distances,  rising  here  over 
a  hillock,  losing  itself  there  under  a  spinney  or  village 
and  ultimately  blocking  its  perspective  against  the  forests 
and  plantings  of  Baronscourt  that  stood  on  the  horizon. 

Maureen  became  suddenly  conscious  of  somebody  strange 
who  was  standing  across  in  the  next  field,  a  barefooted 
girl  in  a  checked  blouse  and  a  red  flannel  petticoat.  There 
was  something  Donegal  in  that  red  flannel  petticoat.  Mau- 
reen had  seen  her  neighbors  in  Dungarrow  wear  such  ar- 
ticles of  apparel.  She  had  worn  a  red  petticoat  herself. 
In  fact  the  sight  of  that  petticoat  brought  back  memories 
of  her  native  place.  In  it  was  something  homely,  tradi- 
tional. Who  could  the  girl  be? 

The  farm  across  the  boundary  ditch  belonged  to  a  family 
sib  to  the  MeKennas,  but,  the  man  of  the  house  dying, 
the  woman  had  sold  the  farm  and  had  gone  away.  Some 
rich  farmer,  his  name  unknown  to  Maureen,  who  lived 
down  near  the  village  of  Drumfinnagh,  had  bought  the 
farm  and  was  using  it  for  grazing-ground.  McKenna  be- 
longed to  the  district  of  Drumfinnagh,  but  being  on  the 
outer  boundaries  of  the  parish  and  nearer  the  church  of 
Cliddagh,  which  belonged  to  the  next  parish,  Maureen 
never  went  to  the  chapel  of  Drumfinnagh.  There  were 
many  Donegal  cubs  down  there  where  the  land  was  richer 
and  the  farms  bigger,  but  Maureen,  wishing  to  cut  off  all 
old  relations  and  memories,  never  went  there  on  Sundays. 

She  gazed  at  the  girl  across  the  dyke  and  fancied  that 
she  saw  something  familiar  in  the  attitude  of  the  stranger. 
She  crossed  the  fence  and  went  towards  her.  The  girl 
with  the  red  petticoat  watched  her  coming,  hitting  the 
grass  idly  with  a  stick  as  she  waited  for  Maureen  to  ap- 
proach. As  Maureen  came  nearer,  her  feet  rustling  in  the 
grass  and  scattering  showers  of  dewdrops  to  the  ground, 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  279 

she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl  with  the  red  petticoat. 

"It  cannot  be  her,"  she  muttered,  not  taking  her  eyes 
from  the  strange  girl.  She  rubbed  her  hand  over  her  brow, 
brushing  back  the  hair  which  fell  down  on  her  face.  "She 
wouldn't  be  here,  not  her!" 

But  all  the  time  she  was  certain  that  this  was  the  girl 
who  had  been  her  friend  in  youth,  the  chum  of  her  child- 
hood, the  confidant  of  many  a  girlish  longing,  Eileen  Con- 
roy.  As  Maureen  came  near  she  could  see  clearly  the  face 
she  had  known,  the  gait,  the  attitude,  the  head  drooping 
slightly  sideways  as  if  listening  to  something  on  the  ground 
at  her  feet.  Though  apparently  looking  down,  she  was 
gazing  under  her  lashes  at  Maureen. 

"Eileen  Conroy!" 

"Maureen  O'Malley!" 

They  embraced,  kissed  and  burst  into  sobs,  Maureen  feel- 
ing so  happy  that  she  could  not  refrain  from  crying,  Eileen 
so  surprised  at  meeting  her  friend  that  this  involuntary  fit 
of  weeping  was  the  only  way  in  which  she  could  express 
her  gladness.  Tears  are  not  the  property  of  grief  alone. 

The  very  souls  of  the  girls  trembled  as  if  they  would 
suddenly  forsake  them  as  dewdrops  in  a  breeze  forsake 
the  flower  to  which  they  cling.  Their  hearts  full  of  thought, 
they  clasped  hands,  kissed,  looked  into  one  another's  eyes. 
Now  and  again  Maureen  faltered,  "Yourself,  Eileen,"  as 
if  she  were  unable  to  realize  the  bodily  presence  of  her 
friend.  "And  yourself,  Maureen,"  Eileen  would  reply  in 
a  whisper,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

Gradually  they  began  to  speak,  their  conversation  ques- 
tions and  answers. 

"And  are  ye  long  here?"  asked  Maureen. 

"Since  last  Monday  week,"  Eileen  replied.  "Maggie 
Kurnew  wrote  home,  saying  that  them  she  was  with  got  a 
new  farm  and  asking  me  to  come." 

"And  ye've  left  yer  mother?"  asked  Maureen. 
"She's  dead,  God  rest  her,"  said  Eileen,  crossing  herself 
and  sighing.     Maureen   also  crossed  herself   and  said  a 
prayer. 

"Was  it  sudden?"  she  asked  when  she  had  finished. 


280  MAUREEN 

"Just  went  away,"  said  Eileen.  "Took  to  the  bed  one 
night  and  was  gone  the  next  mornin'.  And  her  so  hale 
and  hearty  on  it  from  every  one's  way  iv  thinkin'.  But  it 
had  to  be,  for  'twas  the  will  iv  God." 

"And  the  other  ones  iv  Meenarood  and  Meenaroodagh  ? " 
asked  Maureen,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence.  "Are  they 
all  well?" 

"Maldy  Kennedy's  gone,  God  rest  her,  as  well  as  Nancy 
Logan,"  said  Eileen.  "And  the  boys  that's  out  at  the 
war,  there's  more  than  enough  iv  them  that  won't  be  ever 
comin'  back.  The  two  years  past  were  great  years  for 
death,"  she  continued,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  her  head. 
"And  yerself?"  she  inquired,  embracing  everything  in 
the  question.  But  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  went 
on:  "It's  better  lookin'  that  ye  are  than  when  ye  went 
away.  The  life  must  be  easy  on  ye  here. ' ' 

"I'm  in  a  good  place  now,"  said  Maureen  simply. 

"And  we  saw  yer  name  in  the  papers,"  said  Eileen. 
"Was  it  all  right?" 

The  girl  was  really  inquiring  if  the  fact  of  getting  in 
the  papers  was  not  followed  by  dire  consequences. 

"It  didn't  do  any  harm  to  me,"  said  Maureen.  "I 
didn't  want  to  get  in  the  papers,  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"There  was  a  lot  iv  talk  about  it  at  home,  and  some  iv 
them  were  sayin'  that  ye'd  get  a  lot  iv  money  for  it.  But 
I  stuck  up  for  ye,  and  I  said  that  ye'd  never  sink  to  that, 
Maureen  O'Malley.  But  then  the  way  that  people  will  be 
talkin'." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Maureen.  "That's  the  reason  that 
I  left  Dungarrow." 

"We  wondered  where  ye  were  off  to  and  what  ye  were 
goin'  to  do,"  said  Eileen.  "And  I  was  that  upset  about 
ye  goin'  that  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep  for  nights  after." 

They  embraced  again. 

"And  d'ye  mind  the  night  afore  ye  left,"  said  Eileen  in 
a  whisper.  "Maybe  it  was  out  iv  me  head  that  I  was  at 
the  time,  but'  when  one  looks  back  on  what 's  past  there 's 
many  a  silly  thing.  .  .  .  And  he's  just  living  the  same  as 
ever,"  said  Eileen,  replying  to  a  question  which  Maureen 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  281 

had  not  asked.  "He's  great  on  Sein  Fein,  and  he's  the 
head  iv  them  in  Dungarrow. ' ' 

"Who?"  asked  Maureen  in  a  whisper. 

"Himself,"  said  Eileen  sadly,  as  if  lamenting  something. 
"Himself.  Cathal!" 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  Maureen  in  a  voice  of  indifference, 
which  the  flush  rising  to  her  cheeks  utterly  denied. 

"He's  just  the  same  as  ever,"  said  Eileen.  "The  same, 
but  not  altogether  the  same.  That  is  to  me,  anyway." 

"How?  In  what  way?"  stammered  Maureen,  her  sensi- 
tive nostrils  quivering  slightly.  Then  in  a  tone  of  feigned 
indifference  she  said:  "Well,  people  do  change  a  lot  one 
way  and  another!" 

"Aye,  Cathal  has  changed,"  said  Eileen  in  an  agitated 
whisper.  ' '  He  has  changed  more  than  any  one  in  the  place. 
It's  funny  the  way  that  people  change  when  they  get  a  bit 
older.  One  day  they  look  at  things  one  way  and  the  next 
day  they  change.  They  change,  Maureen  O'Malley!  It's 
the  way  with  men." 

The  girl  was  now  speaking  in  tears.  They  gushed  from 
her  eyes  and  down  her  cheeks. 

"Is  it  in  trouble  that  ye  are?"  asked  Maureen.  "Poor 
Eileen." 

"Just  the  same  as  ever,  Maureen,"  said  Eileen  nervously. 
"Ye  never  see  any  wrong  in  anybody.  Always  the  same, 
Maureen.  Just  now  as  well  as  when  ye  left  home.  Ye 're 
far  and  away  better  than  any  one  that  I  know." 

"If  that's  all  ye've  to  tell  me  and  us  not  meetin'  for  two 
years,  I'd  better  be  gettin'  back  to  my  place,"  said  Mau- 
reen, stepping  back  a  pace  under  the  mock  pretense  of 
escaping  from  her  friend's  laudation. 

"But  I  mane  it,"  said  Eileen,  gripping  Maureen's  hand 
and  raising  it  to  her  lips.  "I  mane  it,  every  word  iv  it, 
the  same  now  as  when  we  were  together  at  home,  Maureen. 
Ye  believe  me,  Maureen,  don't  ye  now?"  she  appealed  in 
a  reproachful  voice.  By  the  way  she  spoke  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  girl  was  offended  by  the  thankless  acceptance  of 
a  favor  bestowed. 

"Iv  course  I  believe  ye,  Eileen,"  said  Maureen.     "Ye 


282  MAUREEN 

were  the  only  friend  that  I  had  when  I  was  at  school.  And 
ye  were  always  good  to  me." 

' '  Weren  't  we  the  best  iv  friends,  Maureen  ? ' '  asked  Eileen 
excitedly,  as  if  she  did  not  yet  fully  believe  in  Maureen's 
assurance. 

"Of  course  we  were,"  said  Maureen.  "The  best  of 
friends  then,  and  we're  the  best  iv  friends  now." 

Eileen  looked  at  the  hand  which  she  still  held  and  raised 
it  to  her  lips  again.  Then  folding  her  friend  she  pressed 
her  close  to  her  bosom. 

"We're  friends,"  she  repeated.  "And,  Maureen,  I'm 
sorry  for  ye." 

"Why?" 

* '  Because  he  has  given  ye  the  go  by, ' '  said  Eileen.  * '  Him 
that  ye  thought  would  stick  to  ye  through  thick  and  thin. 
But  it's  the  way  with  men,"  she  added  hastily,  as  if  feel- 
ing that  a  statement  dealing  with  generalities  would  lighten 
the  fact  of  Cathal's  faithlessness.  "It's  men  always  and 
ever.  They're  the  same  wherever  they  are.  And  anyway 
ye '11  never  be  goin'  back  again  to  Dungarrow." 

"Oh!  I  was  never  goin'  back,"  said  Maureen  bravely, 
feeling  at  that  moment  that  she  never  wanted  to  return 
so  much.  "I  didn't  run  away  for  nothin'." 

"And  ye 're  never  goin'  back  at  all?"  asked  Eileen 
eagerly. 

"Never,"  said  the  girl.  "What  do  I  want  goin'  back 
there  and  it  so  hard  to  get  on  with  the  Dungarrow  folk, 
them  with  their  backbiting  and  slander,  even  when  I  was 
wee  and  not  able  to  do  harm  to  anybody  at  all?" 

"And  never  goin'  back?"  asked  Eileen  with  confiding 
curiosity. 

"Never,"  said  Maureen;  then,  as  if  this  decision  was  an 
excuse  for  any  question,  she  asked:  "And  how  has  he 
changed  ? ' ' 

"In  a  way  that  I  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
expect,"  said  Eileen,  bending  down  and  rubbing  some 
clay  which  had  gathered  on  her  toe  with  her  finger.  "  'Twas 
only  the  day  before  yesterday  that  I  came  to  know.  'Twas 
the  post  that  brought  me  a  letter  from  Cathal  and  says  he, 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  283 

'I'm  sorry  that  ye 're  gone,  for  Meenaroodagh  is  not  the 
same  without  ye.  I  wish,'  says  he,  'that  ye  hadn't  took 
it  in  yer  head  to  go  across  the  mountains.'  ' 

She  stopped,  fixed  a  look,  half  defiant  and  half  fright- 
ened on  Maureen.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  done  something 
of  which  she  was  afraid. 

"He  said  that?"  asked  Maureen  in  a  voice  that  was 
strangely  calm  and  controlled. 

"He  said  that,"  Eileen  replied,  dropping  her  head  side- 
ways and  looking  at  the  ground. 

"In  a  letter?" 

"In  a  letter." 

Both  looked  at  one  another,  a  dull  surprise  darkening 
Maureen's  eyes  as  if  something  which  she  never  anticipated 
had  happened.  Eileen  plucked  timorously  at  her  red  pet- 
ticoat and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground  again. 

"And  you've  left  him?"  asked  Maureen  in  the  same 
calm,  even  tone. 

"But  I  didn't  know  what  he  thought  till  I  came  away," 
said  Eileen,  speaking  hurriedly,  almost  incoherently,  as  if 
frightened  at  her  own  words.  "He  was  always  distant  to 
me,  and  it  wasn  't  very  often  that  he  would  stand  and  speak 
to  me  on  the  road  when  he  met  me." 

"And  ye 're  goin'  home  now  to  him?"  asked  Maureen. 

"When  the  term's  up,"  said  Eileen.  "It's  then  that 
I  'm  goin '  back. ' ' 

"Is  yer  place  a  good  one?"  asked  Maureen  in  a  falter- 
ing voice.  Her  face  was  terribly  pale,  the  features  a  token 
of  the  thoughts  which  sped  through  her  mind.  Every- 
thing seemed  blank,  hopeless.  A  martyr  on  the  wheel  might 
feel  something  similar  if  it  were  proved  that  his  God  was 
non-existent. 

"It's  a  good  place,"  Eileen  whispered  faintly,  a  peculiar 
uneasiness  clutching  at  her  heart. 

"Well,  it's  time  I  was  back  at  my  place,"  said  Maureen 
suddenly,  fixing  an  intense  look  on  her  friend.  "I'll  see 
ye  the  morrow,  and  we'll  have  a  talk  about  .  .  . 
about  .  .  ." 

Something  seemed  to  choke  the  girl.    She  reeled  back- 


284  MAUREEN 

wards  a  step,  then  steadied  herself  and  without  another 
word  went  away,  leaving  Eileen  standing  there,  looking 
after  her  with  troubled  eyes. 

Maureen  came  to  the  gate,  lifted  the  upper  cross  pole  and 
clambered  over.  Blind  to  everything,  she  walked  down  the 
lane,  holding  her  head  very  high  and  thrown  back  a  little 
as  if  in  defiance  to  the  world.  At  the  same  time  her  eyes 
were  running  with  tears  that  streaked  her  cheeks  and 
trickled  round  the  corners  of  her  lips.  There  was  an  ex- 
pression of  pain,  mental  and  physical,  about  the  brow  and 
eyes,  in  the  pose  of  the  body,  which  despite  the  high  head 
seemed  to  shrink  into  itself  like  a  snow  figure  in  the  heat 
of  the  sun  that  sparkles  from  every  facet  even  when  dwin- 
dling to  pieces. 

She  went  down  the  lane,  past  a  hedge  that  stood  erect 
and  foliage-heavy  by  the  side  of  the  path.  Unconsciously 
Maureen  was  aware  that  this  hid  her  from  the  girl  to  whom 
she  was  just  speaking,  and  here  Maureen  collapsed  on  the 
ground,  limp  as  a  fallen  rose-petal,  and  burst  into  tears. 
She  was  half  stunned,  too  deadened  by  the  disclosure  of 
Eileen  Conroy  to  consider  the  matter  from  a  sane  light. 
She  felt  that  a  judgment  was  loosened  upon  her,  that  in 
some  way  the  calamity  which  was  hers  had  been  something 
deserved. 

"It  was  my  fault,"  she  mumbled,  scarce  knowing  what 
she  was  saying.  "I  seemed  to  do  the  right  thing  when  I 
left  him,  but  now  it  looks  as  if  it  was  all  wrong.  Oh! 
God  help  me !  It 's  nobody 's  fault  only  mine.  Ah,  Cathal ! ' ' 

She  got  to  her  feet  again,  slowly,  as  if  an  unseen  hand 
was  pulling  her  back  to  the  ground.  Something  rustled 
on  the  path  near  her.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  find  Eileen 
Conroy  standing  a  little  distance  away,  looking  at  her. 

"  Maureen  O'Malley!" 

"Ye 're  not  away  back  to  the  farm  yet?"  asked  Maureen. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Eileen,  "I've  somethin'  to  say  to  ye! 
Guess  what  it  is." 

She  spoke  brightly,  almost  cheerfully,  though  the  cor- 
ners of  her  lips  drooped  ever  so  slightly. 

"I  cannot  guess,"  said  Maureen. 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  285 

"It's  about  Cathal,"  said  Eileen.  "When  ye  went  away 
from  me  a  minute  ago  I  thought  and  thought,  and  then — " 

She  spoke  loudly  but  suddenly  stopped  as  if  her  strength 
had  been  withdrawn. 

" — and  then,"  she  went  on  in  a  lower  voice,  "I  saw  what 
I  was,  a  bad  person." 

"But  you're  not  a  bad  person,"  said  Maureen,  a  gleam 
of  hope  sparkling  in  her  eyes.  "Ye  were  always  my  friend, 
aad  ye 're  me  friend  now,  the  same  as  ever,  Eileen." 

"It's  about  Cathal  Cassidy,"  said  Eileen,  coming  back 
obstinately  to  her  subject.  "  'Twas  a  lie  that  I  told  ye 
when  I  said  that  he  wrote  me  a  letter.  Cathal  won 't  write 
to  anybody;  he'll  hardty  speak  to  a  girl  in  the  parish, 
because  he  doesn't  want  to,  with  yerself  on  his  mind.  Every 
fair  iv  Strabane  he's  there  lookin'  for  yerself,  but  he 
doesn't  know  where  ye  are  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Maureen 
O'Malley,  go  home  to  Dungarrow  again  with  ye,  and  get 
married  on  him!  He  wants  yerself  and  no  other  one  at 
all  in  all  the  world.  If  he  was  married  it  would  be  easier 
for  the  rest  iv  the  world,  Maureen  O'Malley.  He  wants 
ye  and  no  one  else.  Go  back  to  him,  Maureen!" 

These  words  came  from  the  soul  of  poor  Eileen.  Drown- 
ing and  unable  to  hail  the  ship  that  would  save  her,  she 
clutched  at  the  floating  wreckage  which  at  its  best  would 
only  prolong  her  agony. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  the  lie,  Maureen,  but  I  couldn't 
help  myself,  because  I  love  him  more  than  my  own  life, 
more  than  God  in  heaven,"  said  Eileen  in  a  voice  of  an- 
guish. "And  then  I  was  ashamed  when  I  told  the  lie  to 
ye,  for  I  love  you,  too,  and  I  ran  after  ye.  He  loves  yer- 
self, Maureen,  and  he's  breakin'  his  heart  after  ye,  and  ye 
so  cruel  to  him.  Go  back  to  him,  Maureen!  Go  back  to 
him!" 

The  girl  spoke  loudly,  almost  hysterically  as  if  to  drown 
the  torments  of  her  own  soul. 

"Promise  me  that  ye '11  go  back  as  soon  as  ye  can,"  she 
went  on.  "Promise  me  that,  Maureen." 

"I  promise." 

' '  The  morrow  ? ' '  asked  Eileen,  her  lips  quivering. 


286  MAUREEN 

"The  morrow,"  Maureen  assented.  "But  we're  friends, 
Eileen,  now  as  always,  aren't  we?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  girl,  but  Eileen  drew  back 
a  pace. 

"And  ye '11  be  there  the  morrow  night,"  she  said. 

"  If  I  'm  let  away, ' '  said  Maureen. 

"And  ye '11  see  him  the  morrow  night,"  said  Eileen  sadly. 
"Oh,  my  a  my!" 

"But,  Eileen,  are  we  not  goin'  to  be  friends?"  asked 
Maureen,  again  reaching  out  her  hand  to  Eileen.  But 
the  girl  took  no  notice  of  the  gesture. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  she  said  with  a  piteous  look  and 
with  the  air  of  one  who  pronounces  a  verdict  that  cannot 
be  gainsaid,  "Maureen  O'Malley,  we  can't,  the  two  iv  us! 
With  him  between  us  we  can  never  be  friends ! ' ' 

With  these  words  she  turned  round  and  ran  back  to  her 
cattle,  ran  as  if  flying  from  something  terrible  and  ghastly. 

m 

That  night  when  evening  devotions  were  at  an  end,  and 
when  Farmer  McKenna  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  fire  to 
have  a  last  pull  at  his  pipe;  when  Betty  McKenna  com- 
menced darning  a  sock  that  needed  a  thread  or  two  in  the 
gaping  hole  in  the  heel,  Maureen  O'Malley  approached  the 
•woman.  She  was  going  to  request  something,  but  indi- 
rectly, from  Farmer  McKenna. 

"Well,  Maureen,"  said  Betty,  looking  up  at  the  girl. 
"Is  it  to  bed  that  ye '11  be  goin'  now?  It's  time,  too,  for 
ye've  had  the  long  day." 

"I  met  one  from  my  own  parish  this  mornin',"  said 
Maureen.  "It's  a  girl  that's  hired  to  the  man  that  bought 
the  farm  marching  Saugh  Faddagh." 

"And  are  they  all  well  at  home?"  asked  Betty  Mc- 
Kenna. 

"Well,  middlin',"  said  Maureen.  "There  were  a  lot 
iv  deaths  one  way  and  another." 

"That's  always  the  way,"  said  the  man  by  the  fire. 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  287 

"People  do  be  dyin',  but  it's  the  way  iv  things  if  one  gets 
old." 

As  he  spoke  he  pressed  the  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe  with  a  rugous  thumb  and  fixed  a  contemplative  eye 
on  the  fire. 

"And  there  are  people  that  ye  know  yerself  that  has 
gone,  God  rest  them?"  asked  the  woman. 

"More  than  one,"  said  Maureen  sadly.  "And  then 
others,  the  young  fellows  that  have  gone  away  to  the  war. ' ' 

"Lost  forever  to  Ireland,"  said  McKenna  with  a  sigh. 

"It's  always  the  way  with  boys,"  said  Betty.  "Where 
there's  divilment  and  mischief  their  feet  are  always 
goin'." 

"I  would  like  to  go  back  to  Dungarrow,"  said  Maureen 
suddenly. 

Betty  looked  up  at  her  and  placed  the  stocking  on  the 
floor.  The  man  drew  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  struck  the 
bowl  slowly  against  the  leaf  of  his  hand  and  stared  at 
Maureen. 

"Home,  Maureen?"  he  said  in  a  surprised  voice.  "And 
after  tellin'  me  that  ye'd  never  go  back!" 

"And  no  one  at  all  there  sib  to  yerself,"  said  Betty. 

"It's  just  for  a  wee  run  to  see  the  place,  is  it?"  asked 
McKenna. 

"For  good,"  said  Maureen,  in  a  low  voice.  "If  ye  just 
give  me  a  couple  iv  pounds  to  get  clothes  ye  needn't  mind 
about  the  rest  iv  the  money." 

"Well,  ye 're  a  funny  girl,"  said  the  man.  "Goin'  away 
now  with  close  on  two  years'  pay  lyin'  in  my  hands  and 
waivin'  yer  rights  to  it!  Damn  it!  but  it's  the  silly  wee 
fool  that  ye  are,  Maureen!" 

"But  ye 're  not  goin'  to  keep  her  money  back  from  her?" 
said  Betty,  a  little  terrified  even  at  the  suggestion. 

"Well,  I  could  do  it,"  said  the  man.  "But  that's  not 
sayin'  that  I  will  do  it.  It's  all  lying  in  the  bank  at  in- 
terest, and  maybe  it's  two  pounds  or  a  little  over  that  in 
interest  that  it  has  made  for  the  girl. ' ' 

"But  ye've  no  home  to  go  till,"  said  Betty,  looking  at 


288  MAUREEN 

Maureen.  "And  ye've  a  home  here.  Ye 're  the  same  to 
us  as  one  iv  ourselves." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Maureen.  "And  I  can  never  repay 
the  two  iv  ye  for  what  ye've  done  for  me  since  I  came 
here." 

"Then  why  are  ye  runnin'  away!"  asked  James  Me- 
Kenna,  putting  the  pipe  back  in  his  mouth  without  light- 
ing it. 

"I'm  just  goin'  home,"  said  the  girl.  "I  want  to  go 
back  again." 

"But  ye've  no  home  to  go  to,"  said  the  man.  "Ye've 
mortgaged  it,  and  be  the  way  ye  were  talkin'  about  goin' 
back  there  and  only  wantin'  what '11  pay  for  the  train  and 
a  dress  and  a  pair  of  boots,  ye  want  nothin'  else.  How 
can  ye  have  a  home  without  payin'  the  mortgage  on  the 
farm?" 

"Well,  I'll  pay  for  it  out  iv  the  wages,"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  of  all  the  girls  I've  ever  seen  ye 're  the  funni- 
est," said  the  man,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  again, 
hitting  the  bowl  against  his  knee  and  putting  it  in  his 
pocket.  "First  ye  want  to  go  away  home  and  ye  havin' 
no  home.  You  don't  want  yer  wages  with  one  breath  and 
with  the  next  ye  're  going  to  pay  the  mortgage  on  yer  land 
with  the  wages  that  ye  do  not  want  me  to  pay  ye. ' ' 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  stretched  his  arms  over  his  head  and 
went  to  the  door  leading  to  his  bedroom.  Here  he  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  looked  back. 

"Just  have  a  good  night's  sleep,  Maureen  O'Malley," 
he  said.  "Then  think  it  over  in  the  morning  and  let  me 
know  what  yer  mind  is  then." 

He  went  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
As  he  did  so  the  old  woman  looked  at  Maureen  O'Malley. 

"Come,  Maureen,"  she  said.  "Sit  down  beside  me  and 
tell  me  yer  troubles.  There" — Maureen  sat  on  the  floor 
close  to  the  woman — "just  a  bit  closer."  Maureen  nestled 
in  against  the  woman's  knees,  and  Betty  put  her  arms 
around  her  shoulders. 

"Now,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  "tell  me  all.    He's  a  very 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  289 

good  man,  but  for  all  that,  he's  only  a  man."  She  turned 
her  thumb  towards  the  bedroom  door  as  she  spoke.  "But 
after  all  there  are  things  that  he  can't  know.  Girls  will 
be  girls  always,  and  what  can  men  know  about  them? 
Himself 's  a  good  man,  one  of  the  best,  with  heart  for  any 
kindness,  but  he  doesn't  know  everything.  Ye've  trouble, 
Maureen.  Let  me  know  what  it  is,  and  maybe  I  can  help 
ye." 

"I  have  no  trouble  at  all,"  said  Maureen.  "No  trouble 
in  all  the  world." 

"But  what  was  it  that  made  yer  eyes  so  red  the  day, 
and  ye  after  talkin',  as  ye  said  yerself,  to  the  Donegal  girl 
across  the  ditch?"  asked  Betty  McKenna.  "What  man's 
in  it?" 

"Man!"  echoed  Maureen. 

"Young  girls  shed  more  tears  about  men  than  anything 
else,"  said  Betty  with  the  air  of  one  wise  in  the  sorrows 
of  the  young.  ' '  Shouldn  't  I  know  and  me  a  girsha  meself 
at  one  time?" 

"Well,  it  is  a  man,"  said  Maureen,  suddenly  embold- 
ened by  the  tone  of  the  old  woman.  "And  he's  one  of  the 
best  in  the  whole  world." 

"He  always  is,"  said  Betty,  with  a  wise  little  smile 
wrinkling  the  corners  of  her  lips.  "Him  that  we  set  our 
hearts  on." 

"But  there's  not  one  in  all  the  world  like  him,"  said 
Maureen.  "He's  that  good  and  nice — " 

"But  he  must  be  a  funny  fellow,  with  yerself  away  here 
and  him  never  sittin'  down  and  puttin'  his  pen  in  ink  to 
write  a  letter  to  ye,"  said  the  woman,  who  noticed  that 
ever  since  she  came  Maureen  had  never  received  a  letter. 
"But  maybe  it  was  that  ye  had  a  fall  out,  or  maybe  it  is 
that  he  hasn't  the  learnin'  and  can't  write." 

"He's  a  good  scholar,"  said  Maureen.  "He's  the  head 
iv  the  Sein  Fein  in  Dungarrow." 

"So  it  was  a  fall-out?"  asked  Betty. 

"  'Twas  not  a  fall-out,  either,"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  it's  not  me  to  ask  ye  what  it  was,"  Betty  re- 


290  MAUREEN 

marked  with  a  formal  sigh,  "but  if  I  can  be  iv  any  help 
to  ye  at  all,  let  me  know  and  I'll  do  everything  that  I  can 
for  ye,  Maureen." 

The  woman,  of  course,  was  itching  with  curiosity,  but 
with  the  high  diplomacy  of  the  kitchen  she  did  her  best  to 
hide  it. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  everything  about  it,"  said  Maureen, 
and  there  and  then  beside  the  fire  in  the  house  of  James 
McKenna  she  told  the  whole  story  of  her  love  affair,  her 
love  for  Cathal,  the  behest  of  her  mother  which  had  be- 
come a  tenet  of  the  girl's  life  when  her  mother  had  gone, 
and  the  promise  to  the  dead,  the  keeping  of  which  caused 
such  anguish  to  the  living.  She  told  of  the  hurried  de- 
parture from  Dungarrow,  the  wandering  by  night  along 
the  roads  with  the  dead  urging  her  on  and  the  living  call- 
ing her  back,  the  anguish,  the  yearning  and  the  sorrow. 

Having  finished  her  simple  narration  of  that  which  for 
two  years  had  sucked  at  the  essence  of  her  life,  Maureen 
looked  at  Betty  McKenna.  The  old  woman  coughed  angrily. 

"Maureen,  ye 're  a  fool!"  she  said.  "A  silly,  wee  fool, 
that's  what  ye  are.  To  think  iv  ye  being  here  all  this  time 
and  never  lettin '  on  at  all  about  it.  If  I  knew  ..." 

What  she  would  have  done  if  she  knew  the  facts  of  the 
case  was  not  disclosed  at  that  moment.  The  dam  of  grief 
burst  its  control,  and  the  tears  streamed  down  the  cheeks 
of  the  good-natured  woman. 

"No,  no,  Maureen,"  she  said  between  sobs.  "No  more 
...  I  know  all  ...  I  always  thought  it  ...  Not  a  letter 
in  two  years,  and  you  such  a  nice  girl  .  .  .  Beed  a  hosth, 
Maureen,  ~beed  a  hosthl  .  .  .  Say  your  prayers  .  .  .  Oh, 
ye've  said  them  .  .  .  Well,  away  to  bed  with  ye  then,  and 
I'll  hurry  up  James  in  the  mornin'  and  get  yer  couple 
pounds  and  off  and  away  with  ye  to  yer  own  place." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  went  to  the  door  of  her 
room,  but  as  she  reached  it  the  old  woman  called  her  back. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,"  she  said,  "when  ye  go  home  and 
if  ye  find  any  one  that's  up  to  any  tricks  with  ye,  back 
here  with  ye  again  and  as  hard  as  ye  can  pelt  and  tell  yer 


THE  TWO  GIRLS  291 

troubles  to  James  McKenna.     Mind  ye,  Maureen,  he's  a 
quiet  man,  but  when  he  gets  his  tempers  up,  ah!" 

The  ah !  was  very  expressive,  hinting  as  it  did  the  prowess 
of  James  McKenna  in  remedying  an  oppression  and  right- 
ing a  wrong. 


BREED  ASTHOR 

Come,  cuddle  closer,  Breed  asthor, 
For  youth  will  have  its  way — 
The  eyes  so  bright  at  Candlemas 
Grow  sad  on  Lammas  Day. 

There's  litter  bliss  in  Lammas  love 
And  sure  in  time  to  pass, 
And  wrinkle-rutted  dreams  of  hope 
Grow  cold  at  Hallowmass. 

Then  cuddle  closer,  Breed  asthor, 
Ere  time  brings  cark  and  care; 
We'll  catch  the  fancy  born  in  flame 
Ere  it  goes  out  in  airt 


293 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  RETURN 


MAUREEN  O'MALLEY  had  come  back  again.  She 
entered  the  house  which  she  remembered  so  well, 
the  home  of  her  childhood.  It  was  greatly  changed 
from  the  abode  which  she  had  known,  as  it  well  might  be, 
for  it  had  served  the  purpose  of  byre  since  she  had  left. 
In  fact  it  was  used  for  that  purpose  now,  but  was  not  used 
save  in  cold  weather  and  on  the  occasion  of  market-days 
when  Columb  penned  his  cattle  there.  In  the  good  weather 
the  cattle  were  allowed  to  remain  on  the  hills,  day  and 
night. 

Nothing,  in  fact,  was  left  to  remind  Maureen  of  the 
home  which  she  had  known.  All  the  chairs  had  been  re- 
moved, the  table  was  gone,  an  iron  stanchion  was  driven 
into  the  hearth  for  a  cow-stake,  the  window  was  stuffed 
with  bags,  the  floor  was  covered  with  dry  dung. 

In  dreams,  Maureen  always  saw  the  house  as  she  had 
left  it,  the  snug  bed  in  the  corner,  the  hassock  on  the  floor 
near  the  hearth,  the  delf  on  the  dresser  arranged  in  just 
and  gradual  order,  the  picture  of  the  Blessed  Mother  on 
the  wall  near  the  window.  Of  such  a  home  she  always 
thought  with  reverence  and  longing,  but  now  that  she  was 
back  again  the  recollections  of  the  past  veiled  in  a  somber 
hue  and  newly-tried  by  the  present  occasion  became  dull 
and  spiritless. 

The  huge  flagstones  on  which  she  had  once  sat  were  now, 
where  the  drier  portions  of  the  floor  betokened  the  resting- 
place  of  cattle,  hoof -splintered  in  a  thousand  places,  show- 
ing depressions  and  elevations  all  over  its  surface.  Green 

295 


296  MAUREEN 

spots  on  the  walls  showed  where  the  water  oozed  through, 
and  the  scraws  of  the  roof  bulged  in  where  the  rain-sod- 
den thatch  weighed  heavily  on  the  beams  that  bore  it. 
The  whole  house  carried  in  it  the  dire  tragedy  of  disuse 
and  decay;  its  moldy  smells  told  of  a  place  not  used  for 
many  a  long  day  as  a  human  habitation. 

Maureen  placed  her  traveling-bag  on  the  floor  and  went 
to  the  door,  desirous  of  getting  out  to  the  fresh  air,  but 
without  any  idea  of  where  she  wanted  to  go.  Home  again 
and  homeless,  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  sorrow. 
Even  now  she  longed  for  the  kindly  Mrs.  McKenna  in  the 
cottage  away  in  the  Glen  of  Corngarrow. 

Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  came  to  the  door  and  looked  in, 
his  eyes  blinking,  unable  to  pierce  the  darkness.  Years 
had  not  changed  him.  He  was  still  the  same  as  when 
Maureen  had  seen  him  last,  his  heavy  eyebrows  projecting 
forward,  his  chin  scrubby,  his  red  shirt  open  at  the  neck 
and  its  sleeves  thrust  up  over  his  elbows.  Under  his  arm 
he  carried  the  customary  stick.  Probably  the  shirt  and 
the  stick  were  the  same  as  belonged  to  him  years  ago.  It 
was  said  that  he  never  washed.  His  face  seemed  particu- 
larly mild,  the  shock  head  of  hair  hanging  down  over  his 
temples  giving  him  a  certain  patriarchal  air. 

"Well,  and  what  are  ye  wantin'  here?"  he  inquired, 
sensing  the  stranger  whom  he  was  as  yet  unable  to  discern. 
"Are  ye  after  anything?" 

"No,  Columb  Ruagh,"  said  Maureen.  "I'm  after  noth- 
in'.  It's  back  home  that  I  am." 

"Mother  iv  God!"  exclaimed  the  man,  recognizing  the 
voice.  "Is  it  Maureen  O'Malley  that  I'm  looking  on?" 

"It's  me,  Columb,"  said  the  girl.    "I'm  just  home." 

"Indeed,  Maureen,"  said  Columb,  apparently  taken 
somewhat  aback  at  the  sight  of  the  girl.  "And  how  and 
when  did  ye  come?" 

"Across  the  hills,"  said  Maureen.  "It's  just  in  now 
that  I've  come." 

"Well,  good  day  t'ye  anyway,"  said  Columb,  stretching 
out  his  hand  and  gripping  the  girl's.  "We  never  thought 
that  we'd  see  ye  ever  again." 


THE  RETURN  297 

"Neither  did  I  meself  think  that  I'd  ever  be  back  here 
again,  Columb,"  said  Maureen.  "But  be  the  look  iv  this 
place  now,  I  might  as  well  never  have  come  back." 

"So  ye 're  goin'  to  pay  off  the  mortgage?"  asked  Columb. 

"Maybe  I  will,"  said  Maureen.  "At  one  time  I  wanted 
to  keep  the  home,  but  seeing  it  as  'tis  now  I  don't  think  I 
will.  I  didn't  even  it  would  be  a  byre  when  I  came  back." 

"But  a  house  with  not  a  soul  to  live  in  it  is  not  worth 
the  keepin',"  said  Columb.  "The  day  after  ye  went  away 
everything  was  taken  out  iv  the  house.  'Twas  at  night, 
and  when  I  came  to  it  the  next  day  not  a  hilt  or  hair  iv 
anything  could  be  seen.  They're  great  thieves,  the  people 
about  here." 

"I  suppose  they  are,"  said  Maureen.  "Anyway,  when 
there  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  take  care  of  it,  what  could 
ye  expect?" 

"True,"  said  Columb,  fixing  a  keen  glance  on  the  girl 
and  at  the  same  time  recollecting  her  as  he  had  seen  her 
years  ago  on  the  day  that  he  mortgaged  her  farm.  Some- 
thing stirred  deeply  in  the  man's  heart  and  sent  a  queer 
thrill  through  his  body.  What  this  queer  sensation,  so 
foreign  to  his  nature,  was  he  could  not  determine.  "True," 
he  repeated  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "There  was  no  one  in 
the  house,  and  it  was  no  good  keepin'  it  as  if  one  was  ex- 
pectin'  visitors.  And  if  ye've  mind  to  sell  it,  well,  it  doesn't 
matter.  But  land  has  gone  down  in  value  of  late  ever 
since  the  war  is  on." 

"And  how  are  all  the  people  iv  the  place  now?"  asked 
Maureen,  thinking  only  of  one,  but  hiding  that  one  in  th« 
immensity  of  the  question. 

"Oh!  livin'  like  always,"  said  Columb.  "Some,  iv 
course,  have  died,  and  some  haven't,  more's  the  pity!" 

Maureen  smiled.  She  knew  Columb,  his  perverted  out- 
look and  his  calloused  opinions  of  his  fellow  men,  but  as 
he  was  one  with  her  early  environment,  one  who  was  fused 
in  the  fabric  of  her  youth,  she  listened  to  his  castigation 
with  toleration.  Of  course  he  did  not  mean  what  he  said, 
and  even  if  he  did  he  was  old  Columb  Ruagh,  one  of  th« 
parish  people. 


298  MAUREEN 

"Were  there  a  lot  married?"  she  asked. 

"Aye,  there  were  some  married,"  said  the  man.  "And 
gome  that  thought  they  would  get  married  are  not  buckled. ' ' 

"And  yerself  isn't  buckled  yet?"  asked  Maureen  with  a 
smile. 

"No,  not  yet,"  said  Columb,  wincing  as  if  some  one 
had  suddenly  trickled  cold  water  down  his  spine  and  fix- 
ing the  same  steadfast  look  on  the  girl.  "Not  yet,"  he 
said.  ' '  But  who  knows  what  I  may  do  yet  ? ' ' 

"But  ye 're  gettin'  far  an'  away  too  old  for  that  now," 
said  Maureen  jokingly. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "But  for  all  that,  not  so  old.  There 
are  some,  and  they  think  themselves  smart,  that  can't  come 
up  and  near  to  me  in  many's  a  thing." 

There  was  something  strange  in  his  voice  that  caused 
Maureen  to  look  at  the  man  in  surprise.  Even  Columb 
himself  felt  a  certain  wonder  at  his  own  behavior,  for  he 
had  never  before  spoken  of  his  own  assets  to  a  woman. 
Why  he  did  so  now  he  could  not  explain. 

"Well,  well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  as  if  wanting  to 
get  rid  of  a  troublesome  discourse.  "Where  are  ye  going 
to  sleep  the  night?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maureen.  "Maybe  here  if  there's 
no  other  place." 

"It's  not  a  home  for  a  girl  after  her  bein'  away  so  long," 
said  Columb  with  show  of  crude  sympathy  crawling  across 
his  rutted  countenance.  "Sally  Rourke  will  give  ye  a  bed 
and  supper  for  the  night,  I'm  sure,  or  maybe  Condy  Hee- 
lagh's  ones.  Condy  has  a  bed  to  spare  after  gettin'  nearly 
all  his  ones  married  on  good  men.  Maybe  ye '11  be  goin* 
down  there  now." 

"That's  what  I'll  do,"  said  Maureen,  picking  up  her 
traveling-bag  and  making  her  way  to  the  door.  "Slan  leat, 
Columb  Ruagh!" 

He  watched  her  depart,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  down 
to  the  road.  He  saw  her  stand  a  moment  outside  the  door 
of  Condy  Heelagh's  house  as  if  afraid  to  go  further.  He 
noticed  the  erect  form,  the  head  thrown  back  as  if  in  a 
gesture  of  defiance.  Thus  for  a  moment,  then  she  entered. 


THE  RETURN  299 

Columb  came  out  into  the  sunlight  again,  sat  down  and 
fixed  his  eye  on  the  house  of  Condy  Heelagh.  Two  hours 
later  he  was  sitting  there,  his  gaze  still  directed  towards 
the  same  spot ;  he  was  evidently  in  a  very  thoughtful  mood, 
and  something  seemed  to  be  weighing  on  his  mind. 


"Under  God,  the  day  and  the  night,  Maureen  Malley!" 
Peggy  Ribbig  exclaimed  when  she  saw  the  young  girl  cross 
the  threshold  of  the  door.  "Back  to  us  again  from  wher- 
ever ye  were!" 

She  rose  from  her  hassock  by  the  hearth,  ran  to  the 
door,  embraced  Maureen,  kissing  her  hands  while  the  ready 
'ears  ran  from  her  eyes  to  the  girl's  fingers.  Condy  was 
sitting  beneath  the  window,  his  head  over  the  back  of  the 
chair  on  which  he  sat,  his  mouth  open  and  his  arms  hang- 
ing slack  by  his  sides.  The  old  man  was  asleep.  Anne 
was  also  there,  standing  by  the  dresser  where  a  wash-tub 
held  the  dirty  plates  of  the  last  meal. 

"Indeed,"  said  Anne,  the  slow  glance  of  realization 
which  comes  to  one  who  is  looking  on  something  unex- 
pected lighting  her  eyes.  "Indeed,  and  it's  Maureen!" 

"Back  again,  sure,"  said  Peggy  with  a  tone  of  decision 
which  seemed  to  hint  that  she,  the  old  woman,  was  in  a 
measure  responsible  for  the  return  of  Maureen.  On  the 
strength  of  this  she  gave  Maureen  another  hug. 

"Mother  iv  God!"  said  Anne,  catching  Maureen  by 
the  hand.  "Who'd  have  thought  iv  ever  seein'  yerself 
back  here  again,  that,  after  the  way  that  ye  went  and  left 
us  all." 

"Sit  down,  ahaisge,"  said  Peggy,  drawing  a  chair  up  to 
the  fire,  wiping  its  seat  with  her  apron  and  pointing  Mau- 
reen to  it.  "Sit  down,  and,  Anne,  put  the  taypot  on  the 
greeshaugh. ' ' 

Maureen  sat  down,  and  Anne  put  the  teapot  on  the 
embers. 

"Now,"  said  Peggy,  standing  up  as  straight  as  her 
crooked  back  would  allow,  "now,  Maureen  Malley,  off  with 


300  MAUREEN 

yer  shawl  and  let  us  see  what  ye 're  like  after  all  this  time." 

Maureen  threw  her  shawl  back  and  let  it  rest  on  the 
chair. 

"The  same  as  ever,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig.  "Just  the 
eyes  and  the  mouth  and  the  way  that  ye  hold  yer  head,  and 
Maureen,  ahaisge,  ye've  not  aged  a  day  nor  half  a  day 
since  I  saw  ye  the  last  time,  well  over  two  years  ago." 

"And  yerself,"  asked  Maureen,  looking  at  the  old  woman, 
"how  are  ye  gettin'  on?" 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected,"  said  Peggy  with  a  rough 
sigh.  "God  is  good  and  I'm  old,  but  He  doesn't  want  to 
take  me  away  to  Him  as  yet." 

"And  himself?"  asked  Maureen,  looking  at  the  sleeper 
who  was  now  snoring  heavily. 

"Not  so  bad  for  an  old  one,"  said  Peggy.  "But  the 
sleep's  on  him  nearly  all  the  day  now.  Maureen  Malley, 
I've  never  in  all  me  life  seen  one  like  him  for  the  sleep. 
Not  only  when  he's  under  the  blankets  but  when  he's  up 
as  well.  And  Nancy  Logan,  God  rest  her,  has  gone ! ' '  con- 
tinued the  woman.  "And  not  only  Nancy  but  Maldy  Ken- 
nedy and  Eamon  na  Sgaddan." 

"Eamon  na  Sgaddan!"  Maureen  exclaimed.  "Is  he 
gone,  God  rest  him!" 

"The  buryin'  was  three  days  back,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig. 
"And  him,  after  all  his  long  words,  and  his  collar  and 
tie,  went  just  like  any  other  one!  Anne,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  the  daughter,  "what  was  the  long  word  that  Eamon 
said  and  him  after  gettin'  the  Holy  Oil  on  him?" 

"Incomprehensible,"  Anne  replied.  "The  last  word  iv 
poor  Mr.  Brogan." 

"There,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig.  "The  last  word  iv  the 
man.  He  was  lyin'  on  the  bed  with  the  Oil  put  on  him, 
and  him  in  a  kind  iv  a  dead  faint.  They  thought  that  he 
was  dead,  but  he  wasn't,  for  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  he 
looks  up  at  the  roof,  and  he  says,  says  he.  ...  What  was 
that  long  word,  again,  Anne?" 

"Incomprehensible,"  Anne  replied. 

"Well,  that  was  the  word  that  Anne's  after  sayin', " 
said  Peggy  Ribbig,  making  no  effort  to  repeat  it.  "He 


THE  EETURN  301 

said  that  word,  but  there's  not  many  in  the  place  that 
knows  what  it  means." 

"What  way  did  ye  come  home,  Maureen?"  asked  Anne. 

"I  took  the  train  to  Kineeragh,  and  then  I  crossed  the 
hills — "  Maureen  replied. 

"And  were  ye  up  there  at  yer  own  house?"  asked  Peggy 
Ribbig. 

"I  was  that,"  said  the  girl.  "And  it's  a  funny  house 
entirely  now  with  the  cattle  being  in  it." 

"And  where  will  ye  be  stayin'  the  night?"  asked  Anne. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maureen. 

""Well,  I  know,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig  with  a  voice  of  de- 
cision. "Up  the  brae  with  me  own  girsha,  Hannah,  and 
her  man  away  at  work  in  Scotland  and  no  one  in  the  house 
at  all,  bar  herself  and  the  childre,  and  her  lonely  be  night 
and  maybe  frightened  with  the  ghosts  that  bees  about. 
She  wants  some  one  with  her,  and  it's  yerself  that  she'll 
be  glad  to  have  in  the  house,  Maureen  Malley." 

' '  Thank  ye  very  much,  Peggy, ' '  said  Maureen  O  'Malley, 
speaking  quietly,  though  something  seemed  to  be  clutching 
at  her  throat.  She  was  moved  almost  to  the  point  of  tears 
by  Peggy  Ribbig 's  kindliness.  "It's  far  and  away  too 
much  to  put  me  in  Hannah's  house  and  the  trouble  that 
I'll  be  givin'  her." 

"Yell  be  givin'  her  trouble  if  ye  stay  long  there,"  said 
Peggy  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  have  suddenly  captured  a 
hard  note.  "If  ye 're  under  her  roof  for  more  than  three 
weeks  it'll  be  somethin'  that  her  and  meself  won't  approve 
of!" 

"I  have  money,  and  I'll  pay  for  my  keep  if  she'll  only 
let  me  stay,"  said  Maureen.     "But  if  I'm  not  wanted 
there,  I'd  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  go." 
She  got  to  her  feet. 

"Sit  down,  Maureen,  ahaisge!"  said  Peggy  in  a  tone  of 
command.  "Ye 're  a  wee  silly  fool,  the  same  now  as  ye 
were  always!  Sit  down!" 

"Don't  take  any  heed  iv  her,"  said  Anne,  pointing  her 
thumb  at  the  old  woman  and  looking  at  Maureen. 
"Wrong  again!"  said  Peggy  in  a  tone  of  protest. 


302  MAUREEN 

"Ye 're  not  wrong,"  said  Anne.  "But  the  way  ye  have 
iv  sayin'  things  so  that  no  one  understands  what  ye 
mean ! ' ' 

Maureen  fixed  a  puzzled  look  on  the  two  women,  then  on 
the  wrinkle-rutted  face  of  the  sleeper  as  if  an  explana- 
tion of  the  women's  conduct  would  be  found  there. 

"Always  wrong  whatever  I  do,  by  the  way  they  talk," 
said  the  old  woman  in  a  querulous  voice.  ' '  No  matter  what 
I  say  or  do  it's  always  wrong,  but  wait  till  they're  as  old 
as  me  and  then — " 

"I  wasn't  meanin'  anything,"  said  Anne. 

"Ye 're  never  meanin'  anything,  but  ye 're  always 
talkin',"  said  Peggy  Eibbig,  glancing  at  her  daughter. 
"I  never  saw  the  like  iv  ye  in  all  me  life  .  .  .  Maureen 
Malley,"  said  the  old  woman,  looking  at  the  visitor,  "sit 
down  and  I'll  tell  ye  what  the  meanin'  iv  what  I  said  was." 

Maureen  sat  down  again. 

"This  it  was  and  nothin'  else,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig,  set- 
tling her  body  on  the  hassock  and  nursing  her  knees. 
"Ye 're  goin'  up  to  Hannah's  house,  and  I'll  be  that  angry 
if  ye  say  anything  against  goin'  there.  It's  a  snug  house 
that  she  has,  and  shift  and  sheetin'  second  to  none.  And 
she  can  set  a  meal  afore  ye  that'll  do  the  heart  iv  ye  good. 
So  ye 're  goin'  there,  Maureen  Malley,  as  I  ask  ye!  And 
ye 're  not  goin'  to  stay  there  for  long !  If  ye  don't  go  there 
I'll  be  angry,  and  if  ye  stay  there  longer  than  three  weeks 
I'll  be  just  as  angry!  Cause  why?" 

"I  don't  know,  Peggy,"  Maureen  replied. 

"Iv  course  ye  don't,"  said  Peggy.  "I  was  right  in  say- 
in'  that  ye 're  a  wee  silly  girl  now,  as  always.  The  raison 
that  ye '11  not  stay  there,  Maureen  Malley,  is  because  ye '11 
not  be  allowed  to  stay  there.  One  day,  and  that  will  be 
soon,  ye '11  go  away,  and  all  the  wild  horses  iv  the  world 
couldn't  keep  ye  from  goin'  away  the  day  ye  want  to." 

Peggy  got  to  her  feet  again,  and  leaning  her  hands  on 
Maureen's  chair  she  whispered  in  the  girl's  ear: 

"Yell  be  took  away  be  a  good,  dacent  boy,  and  that's 
Cathal  Cassidy!" 


THE  RETURN  303 

m 

That  night  when  Maureen  had  finished  her  supper,  Han- 
nah, the  daughter  of  Peggy  Ribbig,  who  had  just  come  in 
from  the  byre  with  a  guggen  of  milk,  went  up  to  her. 

"Maureen  Malley,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  Hannah,"  said  Maureen. 

"I  saw  a  man  out  be  the  holly  bush  in  the  dark,"  said 
Hannah  in  a  voice  of  mystery.  "Maybe  it'll  be  yerself 
that  the  man,  whoever  he  is,  is  wantin'  to  speak  to." 

Maureen  went  to  the  door  and  out  into  the  darkness. 
The  night  had  fallen  and  the  stars  of  heaven  were  sprin- 
kled with  a  lavish  hand  on  the  sky  from  Crinnan  to  the 
sea.  Everything  was  fresh  and  full  of  promise.  Maureen, 
her  heart  elated  with  hope,  went  to  meet  him. 

He  came  towards  her  with  a  smile,  caught  both  her  hands 
and  kissed  them,  then  drew  her  close  to  his  breast.  It  was 
a  moment  without  embarrassment  or  shame,  snatched  from 
the  air  and  hugged  with  that  greed  which  belongs  to 
love. 

"Oh!  to  think  that  it's  wee  Maureen,"  said  Cathal, 
pressing  his  lips  against  her  hair.  "I  can  hardly  believe 
it.  But  ye  '11  never  go  away  and  leave  me  again.  Say  that 
ye  won't,  Maureen,  say  that  ye  won't." 

Tears  came  from  her  eyes  and  trickled  down  her  cheeks. 
He  watched  them  fall  and  glimmer.  The  dark  night  had 
light  to  spare  for  the  stars  of  grief.  She  nestled  close  to 
him,  raised  her  white  face  and  looked  in  his  eyes.  His 
arm  was  under  her  neck  and  nestling  there,  her  face  was 
like  a  white  bird  in  the  heather  of  a  moor. 

They  spoke  in  whispers,  saying  things  almost  without 
meaning,  things  that  both  felt  but  hardly  understood. 

"Ye  love  me,  Maureen?" 

"Always,  Cathal!" 

"And  ye  went  away  and  left  me?" 

Both  trembled  and  looked  at  one  another  in  the  dark- 
ness, their  eyes  lit  with  a  brilliant  fire.  Almost  without 
realizing  it  their  hands  touched  and  their  lips  met. 


304  MAUKEEN 

"Ye 're  never  to  run  away  and  leave  me  again,  Mau- 
reen. ' ' 

"Never  again.'* 

They  spoke  of  things  silly  and  wide,  of  their  hopes  and 
dreams,  the  past  now  beyond  their  keeping,  the  future 
which  lay  within  reach.  They  spoke  as  lovers  always  speak, 
as  the  ancient  passion  prompts  anew,  every  day  and  every 
hour.  The  eternal  love  was  theirs,  they  clutched  at  it  with 
greedy  fingers,  their  bodies  palpitating  with  the  passion 
that  runs  upward  and  outward,  beyond  the  governance  of 
the  mind.  Love,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and 
ever  shall  be,  was  theirs. 

IV 

The  house  of  Condy  Heelagh,  lipping  the  highway,  was 
a  favorite  resort  of  the  Meenaroodagh  and  Meenarood  rak- 
ers. Here  on  one  night  four  weeks  following  the  return 
of  Maureen  O'Malley  a  number  of  Condy 's  neighbors  fore- 
gathered, and  towards  the  hour  of  ten  the  kitchen  was 
thick  in  tobacco  smoke  that  almost  hid  the  assembled  com- 
pany in  its  curtains.  Cathal  Cassidy  was  there  holding 
a  long  discussion  on  something  political  with  Liam  Logan, 
'Corney  McKelvie  and  Columb  Kuagh  Keeran.  In  the 
corner  near  the  fire  sat  Maureen  O  'Malley  knitting  a  stock- 
ing, and  Peggy  Bibbig  was  beside  her,  engaged  on  a  simi- 
lar task  and  speaking  in  whispers  to  Maureen. 

"He's  a  boy  better  than  any,"  said  Peggy  with  a  sigh. 
"Not  concaity  like  some  iv  them,  and  he  has  the  lavish 
hand  when  a  bargain's  made.  And  dacent!  One  iv  the 
dacentest  in  the  barony  and  beyond  it.  Mark  my  words, 
Maureen  Malley — and  beyond  it." 

"That's  true,  Peggy,"  Maureen  replied,  a  blush  over- 
spreading her  face. 

"Iv  course  it's  the  true  word,"  said  Peggy,  raising  her 
voice  a  little  as  if  hinting  that  those  who  said  otherwise 
would  find  an  enemy  in  her.  "I  mind  him  and  him  not 
more  than  the  height  iv  two  turf,  and  I  mind  as  well  sayin' 


THE  RETURN  305 

then  that  he  would  grow  up  to  be  a  strappin'  man  and  a 
credit  to  the  place.  'And  the  girl  that'll  get  him  when 
he's  big,'  says  I,  'will  have  a  man  that  she  need  not  be 
ashamed  iv!'  ' 

Maureen  moved  her  knitting  needles  quickly  but  made 
no  answer. 

"And  it's  the  long  and  many's  a  day  since  I  went  to 
the  chapel  with  himself, ' '  said  Peggy,  a  reminiscent  gleam 
in  her  eyes  as  she  glanced  at  Condy  Heelagh,  who  sat  by 
the  fire,  his  look  on  the  flames.  "But  I  never  was  sorry 
for  takin'  him,  thank  God!  He  was  a  good  man  to  me 
and  worked  hard  to  keep  the  downdrops  from  the  thatch, 
though  like  meself  he's  gettin'  old  on  it  now,  poor  man! 
And  now,  this  day  it's  close  on  fifty  years  since  I  was 
married  on  him,  and  that's  a  good  time  surely." 

"A  long  while  entirely,"  said  Maureen. 

"Well,  I  mind  the  day  and  the  days  that  went  afore  it 
as  well  as  I  mind  yesterday,"  said  Peggy  with  a  sigh. 
"And  it's  a  time  to  look  back  on  that  many  years.  .  .  . 
But,  Maureen  Malley" — she  edged  her  hassock  nearer  the 
girl — "I'll  tell  ye  what  made  it  a  good  match  more  than 
anything.  'Twas  the  Doonwell." 

The  Doonwell,  with  water  to  heal  body  and  soul,  is  a 
place  reputed  to  possess  especial  holiness  and  is  visited  by 
pilgrims  with  religious  intent.  The  well,  situated  in  a 
wild  and  retired  spot  of  Tirconail,  has  its  sward  hung 
with  the  rags,  crutches  and  other  memorials,  the  litter  of 
the  ailing  which  is  testimony  to  the  cures  effected.  The 
waters  of  the  well  were  blessed  by  an  ancient  saint,  and 
pilgrims  from  all  parts  walk  there  barefooted.  The  Well 
of  Boon  is  some  fourteen  miles  from  Stranarachary. 

"And  ye  walked  all  the  way,  Peggy?"  asked  Maureen. 

"I  was  light  iv  foot  then,"  said  the  old  woman.  "And 
I  walked  it  there  and  back  barefooted,  the  whole  iv  the 
way.  But  it  doesn't  matter  a  bit  how  ye  come  back.  It's 
the  goin'  that  counts,  and  it  must  be  done  in  the  bare  feet 
to  have  the  cure  or  the  blessing.  And  my !  wasn't  I  sore  on 
it  when  I  came  home  at  night ! ' ' 


306  MAUREEN 

"It's  a  hard  journey  for  a  person  to  put  over  one  in  a 
day,"  said  Maureen.  "What  time  did  ye  leave  in  the 
morn  ? ' ' 

"Long  afore  the  birds  shook  themselves,"  Peggy  Ribbig 
replied.  "With  the  sun  up  I  had  more  than  half  the  jour- 
ney there  past  me." 

"I  think  I'll  go  then,"  said  Maureen  impetuously.  "I 
can  set  out  the  morrow  mornin'  early?" 

"Never  too  soon  for  a  good  job,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig 
with  two  sighs,  one  to  head  and  one  to  tail  the  spoken 
word.  She  sighed  thus  whenever  she  spoke. 

"Well,  they're  all  leavin'  now,  so  I  must  get  away,"  said 
the  girl,  rising  and  looking  at  Cathal,  who  was  also  on  his 
feet,  gazing  expectantly  at  Maureen. 


As  Maureen  leant  on  his  arm,  Cathal  felt  the  happiest 
lad  in  all  the  parish.  Both  gazed  at  one  another,  then  at 
Condy  Heelagh,  bidding  good  night  to  the  rakers.  Good- 
by  was  a  lengthy  affair,  so  much  had  to  be  spoken  of,  little 
secrets  perhaps,  which  were  not  to  be  known  by  every  one. 
In  fact,  Condy  Heelagh,  who  never  wore  a  coat  in  his  home, 
put  one  on  towards  midnight  because  it  was  so  cold  at  the 
door  talking  to  the  departing  guests  of  one  thing  and  an- 
other. 

"Good  night  t'ye,  Condy  Heelagh,"  said  Cathal,  as  he 
passed  with  Maureen  on  his  arm.  "And  to  yerself  as  well, 
Columb  Ruagh." 

' '  Old  Columb  here  yet  and  all  the  long  road  to  Crinnan 
in  front  iv  him?"  asked  Maureen  in  a  merry  voice,  her 
heart  light  and  the  cares  which  she  had  known  thrust  away 
from  her.  Even  Columb  appeared  to  her  in  a  changed 
light.  He  was  not  such  a  bad  old  fellow  after  all,  though 
more  than  a  little  fond  of  the  money.  But  he  was  getting 
old  and  had  no  one  to  take  care  of  him  when  he  would  not 
be  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  She  called  him  old  merely 
as  a  sign  of  friendship,  and  because  every  one  else  did 
the  same. 


THE  RETUEN  307 

A  little  distance  along  the  road,  the  boy  and  girl  came 
to  a  halt  and  gazed  at  the  beautiful  night  with  its  myriad 
stars  and  the  trees  waving  their  long  arms  in  the  slight 
breeze.  All  was  perfectly  still,  and  sounds  traveling  from 
a  great  distance  reached  the  ears  of  the  two.  From  afar 
came  the  roll  of  the  sea,  and  from  the  near  hills  came  the 
rumble  of  brooks  falling  down  over  rock  and  ravine.  Here 
and  there  a  light  glimmered  steadily,  and  now  and  again 
one  went  out  as  if  bidding  good  night.  A  dog  barked  from 
the  heel-end  of  Meenaroodagh,  and  the  bark,  carried  from 
brae  to  brae  by  the  echo,  repeated  itself  a  thousand  times 
before  pulsing  out  to  sea.  Maureen  listened  to  it  for  a 
moment,  then  with  a  smile  lighting  up  her  eyes  she  turned 
to  Cathal. 

"Isn't  it  quiet  here,  Cathal?"  she  said. 

"Quiet's  not  the  word,"  Cathal  answered,  gazing  at  her 
in  ecstasy. 

"And  the  trees  shaking  their  arms!"  said  Maureen,  look- 
ing at  an  ash  by  the  roadside  which  waved  against  the 
stars. 

"Aye,  they're  not  leavin'  many  of  them  to  the  country 
now,"  said  Cathal  sadly.  "One  time  this  country  was 
filled  with  forests,  but  there'll  soon  not  be  one  tree  left  in 
all  Ireland." 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Maureen,  sighing  also,  though  at 
the  same  time  happiness  welled  up  in  her  heart. 

"But  as  long  as  you're  here,  I'll  never  miss  anything," 
said  Cathal,  catching  the  girl 's  hand  as  he  spoke  and  press- 
ing it  tightly  in  his  own.  "Now  that  ye 're  back  here  again 
there's  nothing  more  that  I'm  wantin',  Maureen." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  could  see  a  blush  mantling  her 
cheeks.  He  put  his  hand  round  her  shoulder  and  drew 
her  in  to  his  body.  Maureen  made  no  effort  to  drag  herself 
away.  Thus  they  remained,  the  two  of  them,  for  a  long 
time,  plunged  in  dreams,  after  which  both  moved  away  in 
the  direction  of  Maureen's  lodging.  She  opened  the  door 
of  the  house,  set  one  foot  inside  it,  and  then  turning  round 
quickly  she  held  out  her  hand  towards  Cathal  and  asked 
in  a  whisper: 


308  MAUREEN 

"Is  it  to  Kineeragh  that  ye 're  goin'  the  morrow  with 
your  cart?" 

"I  am,  Maureen." 

"And  what  time  will  ye  be  passin'  Crinnan  cross-roads 
on  the  way  back?"  she  inquired. 

"Eight  o'clock,  maybe,"  he  answered.  "Maybe  later, 
but  not  earlier." 

"And  if  ye 're  there  afore  that  time,  will  ye  wait  for  me 
if  I'm  later?"  she  asked. 

* '  Of  course  I  '11  wait  for  you,  wee  Maureen, ' '  said  Cathal 
tenderly.  "  I  '11  wait  there  for  ye  till  the  Day  iv  Judgment 
and  beyond  if  yell  ask  me.  I've  waited  for  ye  so  long 
without  ye  asking  me  that  it  won't  come  amiss  for  me  to 
wait  when  I  'm  asked.  And  where  will  ye  be,  to  be  at  Crin- 
nan cross-roads  at  that  time  in  the  night?" 

"It's  to  the  Doon  Well  that  I'm  goin',"  said  Maureen. 
"And  I'll  be  tired  comin'  back,  and  I'll  not  say  no  to  a 
lift  on  the  cart  iv  Cathal  Cassidy." 

"Well,  I'll  be  there  between  eight  and  nine,"  said  Cathal. 
"Columb  Euagh's  house  is  just  beside  the  road,  and  he 
has  always  a  good  fire  on,  and  if  ye 're  early  ye  can  sit 
down  there  and  warm  yerself.  I'll  come  along  as  hard  as 
I  can,  once  I  do  my  business." 

"Good  night  t'ye,  Cathal,  and  a  good  sleep,"  said  Mau- 
reen, drawing  the  hand  which  Cathal  still  held  to  herself 
and  pulling  the  door  to  a  little.  "And  thanks,  thanks  ever 
so  much  for  what  ye 're  goin'  to  do  for  me  the  morrow 
night." 

"But  there's  one  thing  that  I've  to  tell  ye  yet,"  he  said 
in  a  whisper.  "  It 's  this. ' ' 

He  caught  her  hand  again,  drew  her  in  close  to  him,  so 
closely  and  tightly  that  she  felt  choking.  He  pressed  his 
cheek  to  hers,  her  breast  to  his,  all  the  little  infinitesimal 
movements  and  shades  of  movements  which  love  brings  to 
its  aid. 

They  were  one  black  shadow  in  the  doorway,  lighter  and 
darker  tones  of  shading,  lacking  contour  and  outline.  Now 
and  again  when  they  moved  or  changed  position  they  could 
see  a  live  coal  glimmer  on  the  ashes  like  a  little  wicked 


THE  RETURN  309 

eye,  making  sport  at  the  passion,  the  moment's  respite 
which  love  snatches  from  the  drudgism  of  time. 

A  step  was  heard  on  the  road;  somebody  was  coming 
from  the  direction  of  Condy  Heelagh's. 

"Good  night  to  ye,  Cathal,"  whispered  Maureen. 
"There's  some  one  comin'." 

"Let  them  come,"  said  Cathal,  releasing  the  girl  never- 
theless. "I  know  who  it  is.  It's  Columb  Ruagh  on  the 
way  home." 

"Well,  we'll  tell  him,"  said  Maureen. 

Columb  came  abreast.  Cathal  stepped  into  the  middle 
of  the  road  to  meet  him.  The  newcomer  came  to  a  sudden 
stop  as  a  man  that  expects  a  trap,  turned  his  head  to  the 
right  and  looked  at  the  ditch,  to  the  left  and  took  in  with 
a  glance  a  sycamore  tree,  then  at  Cathal  Cassidy  standing 
in  front  of  him. 

"It's  me,  Columb,"  said  Cathal.  "Did  you  think  I  was 
a  polisman?" 

"No,  not  a  polisman,"  said  Columb  in  a  gruff  voice. 
"But  it's  as  well  to  be  careful  in  this  arm  iv  the  world,  for 
one  never  knows  what's  goin'  to  take  place." 

"Well,  that's  true,"  said  Cathal. 

"But  get  any  one  tryin'  their  capers  with  me!"  snarled 
Columb,  taking  the  stick  from  under  his  arm  and  giving  it 
a  suggestive  shake.  "I'd  soon  let  them  know!" 

' '  Old  Columb  wants  to  have  a  fight ! ' '  said  Maureen,  who 
was  still  standing  at  the  door. 

"And  old  Columb  can  stand  up  to  the  best  of  them," 
said  Cathal. 

Columb  took  his  stick  down,  folded  his  arms  and  looked 
the  younger  man  between  the  eyes. 

"Aye,  and  indeed  Cathal  Cassidy!"  he  said  in  a  slow 
voice  which  seemed  to  hide  a  threat.  "Aye,  and  indeed! 
Old  Columb  can  stand  up  to  the  best  of  them,  be  whatever 
they  are!" 

"True,  true,"  said  Cathal  with  a  smile. 

"To  the  best  iv  them  and  the  very  best  iv  them!"  said 
Columb  in  the  same  threatening  voice.  "And  many  a  one 
would  be  as  well  to  have  that  in  mind  when  they've  any- 


310  MAUREEN 

thing  to  do  with  old  Columb,  that's  not  maybe  as  old  as 
he's  hairy." 

He  spat  violently  on  the  road  as  if  giving  emphasis  to 
his  utterance,  then  without  another  word  he  disappeared 
into  the  darkness. 

"He  has  a  funny  way  and  all  with  him,"  said  Maureen 
from  the  doorway. 

' '  That 's  old  Columb ! ' '  said  Cathal.  ' '  If  a  person  didn  't 
know  him  it  would  be  hard  to  make  anything  of  him.  His 
father  was  something  like  him,  I've  heard." 

"Yes,"  said  Maureen,  who  had  very  little  interest  in  old 
Columb.  "Good  night  t'ye,  Cathal,"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  young  man. 

"Good  night,"  he  replied  and  caught  her  hand  again. 
He  drew  her  towards  him,  rested  his  face  on  her  hair  and 
pillowed  the  small  brown  head  on  his  breast.  To  see  the 
beloved  back  from  her  grave  of  exile  resting  in  his  arms, 
her  eyes  as  bright  as  stars  when  they  looked  up  at  him, 
pulling  her  lips  back  when  he  bent  to  kiss  her,  but  allow- 
ing them  to  be  kissed  all  the  same,  filled  his  heart  with  a 
mad,  overpowering  happiness. 

When  he  went  home  that  night,  Cathal  drew  the  blind 
from  his  window,  put  out  the  lamp  and  stared  into  the 
darkness.  In  front  of  him  lay  the  whole  townland  of 
Meenaroodagh,  with  here  and  there  a  few  late  lamps  still 
beaming  out  into  the  darkness.  But  Cathal  only  saw  one, 
the  light  in  the  home  of  Maureen  O'Malley.  At  length, 
when  this  light  wavered  and  died  out,  Cathal  turned  in 
his  seat,  his  soul  afire  with  happiness,  and  said  to  him- 
self: 

"Wee  silly  brown  head!    Maureen  O'Malley!" 

Cathal's  were  not  the  only  eyes  that  watched  the  window 
that  night.  When  the  paraffin  lamp  was  turned  down  and 
the  wick  choked  in  the  jaws  of  its  burner,  a  dark  form 
rose  from  the  green  outside  Maureen's  bedroom  window, 
and  a  bristly,  rufous  face  pressed  against  the  pane  as  if 
trying  to  pierce  with  its  eyes  the  fabric  of  the  blind  and 
the  obscurity  of  the  room.  For  a  long  hour  it  remained 
there,  listening. 


THE  RETURN  311 

When  the  figure  withdrew  it  did  so  on  tiptoes.  A  space 
away  it  sat  down,  lifted  a  pair  of  boots  from  the  ground 
and  put  them  on.  In  the  widely  diffused  darkness,  where 
substance  was  shade  and  shadow  substance,  where  silence 
oscillated  as  if  in  the  throes  of  terror  and  the  low  con- 
tinual undertone  of  night  whispered  of  despair,  the  figure 
gathered  to  itself  the  animate  manifestation  of  anguish 
and  doom. 

When  it  rose  to  its  feet,  the  figure  stood  straight  as  a 
stake,  form  with  no  fixed  outline,  a  ghost  in  the  solitude. 
Suddenly  it  moved,  changing  its  location  in  space  without 
sound.  At  an  oblique  angle  it  made  for  the  road.  There, 
no  longer  hemmed  by  the  confines  of  caution  and  secrecy, 
its  hobnailed  boots  rasped  on  the  roadway.  The  figure  was 
that  of  a  man,  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran. 

"Old!"  he  growled  in  a  voice  teemful  of  hate  and  acri- 
mony. "Old  Columb!  I'd  wring  their  necks!" 

He  stopped,  ground  his  teeth,  pressed  one  closed  fist 
against  the  other  and  twisted  both  round  in  opposite  direc- 
tions as  if  wringing  the  neck  of  a  chicken. 


GARRYBAWN 

It's  Micky  Fergus  Diver,  and  he's  only  skin  and  "bone, 

With  acres  holm  and  heather,  that,  and  money  of  his  own — 

It's  all  day  long  he's  sitting  with  his  elbow  on  the  hob, 

The  crabbit  Micky  Fergus  with  his  dudheen  in  his  gob; 

A  near  old  scrawny  scrape-the-pot  that's  askin'  dusk  and  dawn: 

"Boy!  are  ye  never  gettin'  on  with  diggin'  Garrybawn!" 

My  gallowses  are  hangin'  down  and  twistin'  round  my  legs; 
The  girls  can  see  the  most  of  me  that's  stickin'  through  my  rags; 
It's  dribs  and  drabs  on  back  and  front  and  freezin'  to  the  pelt — 
Ye'll  see  it's  up  to  him  one  day  and  give  him  such  a  welt! 
The  close  and  scringy  rip  of  sin  that's  at  me  dusk  and  dawn 
With:    "Will  ye  never  hurry  up  with  diggin'  Garrybawn  I" 

Now  if  he'd  let  me  to  a  dance,  or  better  to  a  fair, 

A  penny  whistle  I  would  buy  and  learn  a  dancin'  air — 

I'd  maybe  whistle  it  at  work,  or  wouldn't  it  be  fun 

To  blow  it  right  in  Micky's  face  at  night  when  work  bees  don»! — 

It's  thrown  he  is,  the  people  say,  but  I  can  be  as  thrown — 

For  Micky  Fergus  I  can't  stick,  him  and  his  Garrybawn. 

But  wait  a  bit  till  Old  HaU'eve,  and  then  you'll  see  my  plan} 

It's  off  from  here  I'll  scoot  to  where  they'll  treat  me  like  a  man, 

As  good  as  any  in  the  place,  and  not  because  I'm  wee 

They'll  curl  their  gobs  and  think  it  smart,  that  looking  down  on  met 

And  three  pounds  comin'!    It's  a  lot!    Just  wait  till  that  is  drawn, 

I'll  take  the  road  from  Micky's  house,  him  and  his  Garrybaumt 


313 


CHAPTER  X 


IT  was  the  night  following,  the  hour  eight,  the  locality  a 
cave  on  the  Crinnan  hills.     This  cave  ran  under  the 
rocks,  and  far  removed  from  human  habitation  it  was 
a  paradise  for  the  potheen-distiller.    The  hill  almost  stood 
upright ;  to  climb  it  by  day  was  a  feat,  by  night  an  impos- 
sibility for  most  men,  but  not  for  the  owner  of  Crinnan, 
Columb  Ruagh  Keeran.    It  was  here  that  the  man  pursued 
his  work  in  the  darkness. 

The  night  was  clear,  though  moonless,  with  a  heaven  of 
stars  and  a  cold  wind  on  the  hills.  Frost  had  set  in,  and 
the  ground  under  Columb  Ruagh 's  feet  as  he  made  his  way 
from  his  cabin  to  the  still-house  was  hard  and  crisp.  He 
climbed  the  haunch  of  hill  and  arrived  at  his  cave. 

"Within,  near  the  entrance,  was  a  circle  of  stones,  in  the 
center  of  which  a  turf  fire  burned  slowly.  Round  this  fire 
were  a  number  of  barrels,  kegs,  pails,  pots  and  trenchers. 
On  entering,  the  nose  was  assailed  by  the  putrid  stench  of 
warm  grain,  barm  and  sediment  of  all  kinds. 

As  he  came  in  from  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  red- 
haired  man  hit  the  fire  with  his  boot,  causing  the  sparks 
to  fly  up  through  the  gloom.  Then  he  drew  off  his  gray 
woolen  wrapper  and  threw  it  into  the  corner  with  a  quick, 
convulsive  movement.  He  turned  up  his  sleeves,  spat  on 
his  hands  and  rubbed  his  palms  along  the  legs  of  his  cor- 
duroy trousers.  The  fire  from  the  grate  lit  up  his  rufous 
face,  blood-threaded,  wrinkled,  and  unshaven.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  looked  round,  staring  into  the  black  obscurity  that 
bundled  itself  in  angles,  recesses  and  unfathomable  cor- 
ners as  if  cloaking  something  fell  and  hideous. 

315 


316  MAUREEN 

Even  the  world  lighted  by  the  fire  was  abject  and  filthy, 
the  walls  oozing  with  putrid  moisture,  the  floor  covered 
with  scraps  of  decaying  food,  the  droppings  of  sheep,  and 
the  sulprus  sediment  of  the  still.  Water  falling  from  the 
roof  gurgled  as  it  dropped  in  a  slough  on  the  floor.  This 
water  ran  along  a  channel  formed  at  the  base  of  the  wall 
and  disappeared  in  the  blackness,  gleaming  and  glinting  as 
if  endowed  with  life.  It  looked  like  a  snake  crawling  out 
from  the  firelight  into  some  secret  lair. 

The  man  ran  his  fingers  through  the  red  hair  sprinkled 
with  gray,  spat  on  his  hands,  rubbed  them  together  and 
put  one  over  his  ear  and  listened. 

"Not  comin'  yet,  the  bastard!"  he  growled,  gnashing 
his  teeth  and  wrinkling  up  his  eyes  as  if  the  thought  of 
something  caused  him  unendurable  agony. 

Then  with  feverish  animation  he  rushed  into  one  of  the 
dark  corners  and  from  there  commenced  to  throw  rocks  and 
sods  of  turf  into  the  circle  of  cave  lighted  by  the  fire. 
When  a  heap  was  collected  he  reappeared  and  built  a  little 
circle  of  stones,  lit  a  second  fire  in  it  and  filling  a  still  with 
water  placed  it  on  the  flames. 

"Now,  the  vat!"  he  muttered,  running  into  the  corner 
again.  He  returned,  rolling  a  large  barrel-shaped  vessel 
open  at  one  end  like  a  churn  and  having  a  plugged  hole  in 
the  side  near  the  base.  This  he  placed  on  the  floor  by  the 
fire. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  and  the  corner  was  Columb 
Ruagh's  storeroom.  From  this  shadow-filled  recess  he 
brought  out  a  sheaf  of  green  rushes  and  a  bundle  of  sea- 
soned ash  plants.  These  latter  were  peeled  of  their  barks 
and  cut  to  a  level  smoothness  at  both  ends  as  if  planed. 

Inside  the  barrel,  some  six  or  seven  inches  above  the 
plugged  hole,  were  a  number  of  small  notches  circling  the 
interior  wall.  In  these  notches  Columb  fixed  the  rods  so 
that  they  stretched  across  the  barrel  from  one  corner  to 
another  like  laths  of  a  corn-riddle.  A  spread  of  green 
rushes  was  laid  on  top  and  on  these  a  sprinkling  of  white 
stones  with  the  object  of  keeping  the  rushes  in  place  and 


POTHEEN  317 

preventing  their  being  disturbed  in  the  subsequent  opera- 
tions. 

"That'll  do!  That'll  do!"  said  the  man,  spreading  out 
his  hands  on  the  rushes  and  thrusting  the-  false  bottom 
down  with  all  the  force  he  could  muster.  ' '  It  has  the  back 
iv  a  two-year-old,  this  bottom!  Old  Columb  Kuagh  that 
can't  be  bate  at  anything!  See  how  I  do  it!"  he  shouted, 
addressing  the  blackness  that  surrounded  him.  "There's 
none  iv  the  young  ones  can  hold  a  candle  to  me.  Old 
Columb  Ruagh,  indeed.  Hah!  I'll  let  them  see,  the  rips 
ivhell!  I '11  let  them  see!" 

As  he  spoke,  this  singular  creature  lay  down  on  the  floor, 
turned  over  in  the  slush  like  a  colt  in  the  grazing,  all  his 
motions  impatient,  grotesque  and  restless,  as  if  a  fiend  were 
in  his  body  forcing  him  to  perform  actions  out  of  keeping 
with  the  governance  of  will. 

He  got  up,  rushed  again  into  the  obscure  corner  which 
was  the  storehouse  of  the  mountain  distillery.  When  he 
came  out  he  carried  two  bags,  one  in  each  arm,  the  bigger 
containing  twelve  stones  of  barley  meal,  the  smaller  four 
stones  of  vat  meal.  Despite  the  weight,  Columb  walked 
quietly  with  his  burdens  to  the  fire,  the  supernatural  bril- 
liancy of  his  eyes  seeming  to  ask  imaginary  onlookers  to 
take  stock  of  his  prowess.  Call  him  an  old  man,  indeed! 
Old  Columb  Ruagh  was  as  strong  as  the  best  of  them,  and 
stronger ! 

"Meal  seed  now!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  placed  the  two 
bags  on  the  floor  and  went  into  the  corner  again.  There 
was  a  sound  as  if  he  were  stumbling  over  impediments, 
but  presently  something  brown  and  bulky  whizzed  through 
the  air  and  dropped  on  the  floor,  a  poke  containing  two 
stone  of  meal  seed;  the  inner  husks  of  corn,  which  is 
amongst  other  things  used  by  the  thrifty  housewives  in  the 
making  of  sowans. 

"That's  it!"  Columb  yelled,  coming  into  the  light  again. 
"Barley  grain,  oat  meal  and  meal  seed.  No  sugar  for  me! 
Four  stone  iv  it,  and  it  costs  a  tidy  penny  now !  No,  none 
iv  it  for  me,  for  old  Columb.  Farley  Eonar  didn't  use  it, 


318  MAUREEN 

neither  did  Myles  McMonagle,  and  them  at  their  day  the 
best  on  the  job.  It's  a  wild  taste  that  it  gives  to  the 
potheen!  Into  the  vat  with  it,  into  the  vat!"  he  roared, 
lifting  the  bags  one  after  another  and  emptying  their  con- 
tents on  the  rush  bed  of  the  barrel.  "Water  on  it,  ye 
divil,  ye,  now  ye  're  on  the  boil ! "  he  cried,  running  to  the 
still  and  lifting  it  from  the  fire  and  emptying  its  contents 
into  the  vat. 

"That's  it!"  he  cried,  picking  up  a  shovel-shaft  which 
had  been  trampled  into  the  filth  of  the  floor,  pulling  it 
between  his  legs  to  clean  it.  With  this  he  commenced  to 
stir  the  contents  of  the  vat,  taking  care  not  to  dislodge  the 
stones  or  disturb  the  rushes  which  covered  the  false  bottom. 

* '  Back !  f orrid !  Lower  it  down ! "  he  chaunted,  stirring 
with  all  his  might  but  so  aptly  that  the  false  bottom  was 
not  disturbed.  "Back  and  f  orrid,  shovel-shaft!  Through 
the  stones  and  round  them  like  a  salmon  through  the  tree 
runts  in  a  river!  I  can  see  the  stones  through  the  triosg, 
and  they  call  me  old  Columb  Kuagh.  Oh!  the  brats  iv 
perdition !  May  the  walls  iv  hell  fall  on  them ! ' ' 

Perspiration  came  out  on  his  face,  trickled  down  his 
forehead,  cheek,  and  jaw,  and  ran  in  a  stream  through  the 
red  hair  of  his  muscled  chest.  The  liquid  was  now  filter- 
ing through  the  rushes,  and  its  gurgle  as  it  dropped  in 
the  lower  portion  of  the  vat  could  be  heard  above  the  ex- 
clamations of  the  red-haired  man.  When  he  had  stirred 
for  some  twenty  minutes  he  pulled  the  shaft  from  the  vat, 
threw  it  on  the  ground  and  arranged  the  buckets  round  the 
vat.  Then,  pulling  the  plug  from  the  hole,  he  allowed  the 
liquor  to  drip  into  the  largest  bucket. 

Another  barrel  was  taken  from  an  adjacent  stillion,  and 
in  this  Columb  placed  a  quantity  of  yeast,  over  which  the 
buckets  of  liquor  drained  from  the  vat  were  poured.  Two 
pints  of  hop-juice  were  added,  and  when  this  was  thrown 
in  Columb  leaned  on  the  rim  of  the  barrel  and  looked  down, 
seeing  nothing,  but  hearing  as  in  a  dream  the  frothing  of 
the  simmering  liquid. 

He  remained  thus  for  some  moments,  leaning  over  the 
barrel  in  a  limp,  motionless  attitude  as  if  he  had  been  flung 


POTHEEN  319 

there  after  death.  Suddenly  he  raised  himself,  went  to 
the  fire,  lit  a  spale  and  came  back  to  the  barrel  again. 
Looking  in,  he  could  see  the  contents  quiver,  rise  up  in  little 
ripples  as  if  a  million  eels  were  moving  beneath.  Huge 
bubbles  chased  one  another  across  the  surface,  and  a  dron- 
ing keen  rose  to  the  roof  of  the  cavern,  sank  into  the  ob- 
scure walls  of  gloom  which  filled  the  place  and  died  away. 

"Old!"  the  man  muttered,  as  he  pressed  the  lighted  end 
of  the  spale  between  finger  and  thumb  and  put  it  out. 
"Old!"  he  growled,  then  in  a  sudden  fit  of  frenzy:  "Ah! 
the  divil  fly  away  with  them,  the  brats !  I  could  buy  them 
body  and  soul.  Sein  Fein!  No,  not  for  me,  not  for  old 
Columb.  Misha  Fein  is  more  like  it.  They  can  drink  my 
potheen  when  they  pay  me  hard  money  for  it;  they  can 
go  down  to  Stranarachary  and  with  their  bands  and  drums 
and  fifes  keep  the  polis  watchin'  them,  and  that's  all  I 
want.  If  the  polis  stay  all  their  time  in  Stranarachary  I 
am  safe  here!  That's  my  way  iv  lookin'  at  it!  All's  on 
my  side,  everything.  There's  no  whisky  comin'  to  the  town 
now,  and  that  means  increase  for  Columb  Ruagh.  Old 
Columb  Kuagh !  Ah !  the  dhirty  pigs ! ' ' 

Columb  ceased  for  a  moment  but  immediately  was  talk- 
ing again,  tramping  through  the  cave,  now  uttering  pure 
nonsense,  again  giving  expression  to  something  wise  and 
weighty,  but  all  his  remarks  filled  with  undying  hate 
against  some  person  or  persons  unknown.  At  times  he 
held  up  his  hands  over  his  head  as  if  calling  to  the  dark- 
ness to  listen  and  pay  heed  to  his  threats,  again  he  thrust 
his  arms  to  the  elbows  between  the  red  flannel  shirt  and 
the  neck  of  his  trousers,  leant  his  head  sideways  in  a  listen- 
ing attitude  and  gazed  towards  the  entrance  of  the  cave  as 
if  looking  for  somebody  to  make  appearance.  "Will  he 
never  come  in,  the  brat  iv  hell?"  he  asked  himself  more 
than  once. 

Suddenly  he  took  from  the  corner  of  the  stillion  a  pole 
round  one  end  of  which  was  bound  a  string  of  white  thick 
cloth  saturated  with  paraffin  oil.  This  he  thrust  into  the 
fire,  stepping  back  a  pace  as  it  burst  into  flame.  Drawing 
it  out,  he  went  to  one  of  the  corners  where  a  second  barrel 


320  MAUREEN 

as  full  as  the  one  already  filled  stood  on  a  ledge.  This  bar- 
rel was  covered  with  a  lid  weighted  down  with  stones  and 
bound  with  several  layers  of  cloth  to  exclude  the  air. 

He  placed  the  torch  on  the  wall,  removed  the  lid  from 
one  barrel  to  another,  then  examined  the  one  on  the  ledge. 
When  last  Columb  looked  in  it  on  the  previous  evening,  its 
contents  were  fermenting,  with  bubbles  chasing  one  another 
across  its  surface.  Now  it  was  quite  at  rest,  as  placid  as  a 
spring  well,  colored  a  variegated  blue  and  purple  like  par- 
affin oil.  In  this  stage  the  liquor  was  named  kilty,  or  wort. 
In  some  parts  of  Donegal  bread  and  kilty  are  considered 
excellent  repast  even  for  a  king. 

Columb  filled  the  still  with  kilty,  added  a  few  pieces  of 
soap  to  the  brew  and  fixed  an  air-tight  cover  on  the  still. 
From  this  tin  cover  projected  a  lead  tube,  with  one  end, 
twisted  in  a  corkscrew  fashion,  leading  downwards  into  a 
large  keeve  filled  with 'the  icy  cold  water  which  dropped 
from  the  roof.  Through  a  hole  in  the  side  near  the  bottom 
the  lower  end  of  this  tube,  the  worm,  projected. 

n 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  movement  at  the  entrance 
of  the  cave;  a  shuffling  sound  was  heard,  as  if  a  piece  of 
cloth  was  being  pulled  along  the  ground.  A  shade  moved 
from  the  shadows  and  entered  the  circle  of  firelight.  It 
was  Micky  Og,  a  workhouse  boy,  a  youngster  of  thirteen 
who  had  been  in  Columb 's  service  for  some  months. 
Micky's  parents  were  tinkers. 

He  came  up  close  to  Columb  Ruagh,  who  was  now  look- 
ing into  the  fire,  his  ridged  and  rufous  face  beaded  with 
sweat  and  the  tufts  of  his  hair  standing  out  in  several 
ways,  glistening  like  threads  of  gold. 

' '  I  'm  here,  back  again,  Columb  Ruagh, ' '  said  the  young- 
ster in  a  nervous  voice  as  if  afraid  of  having  done  some- 
thing wrong  in  not  being  earlier  in  the  cave.  The  big  man 
gave  the  fire  a  poke  with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  and  as  a  burn- 
ing peat  fell  outside  the  circle  of  stones  he  lifted  it  casually 
between  finger  and  thumb  and  threw  it  into  its  place 


POTHEEN  321 

again.  Then  without  a  word,  but  with  a  grim  shake  of  the 
head,  he  glared  at  the  youngster. 

"I  was  down  at  the  house,  Columb  Ruagh,"  the  young- 
ster began,  speaking  timorously  as  if  repeating  a  lesson 
which  he  was  afraid  of  forgetting,  "and  I  waited,  but  not 
the  hilt  or  hair  iv  a  sound  could  I  hear  comin '  from  beyont 
the  hills  at  the  fut  iv  Binbawn." 

Columb  nodded  his  head,  put  a  short  clay  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  lit  it  and  eyed  the  youngster  up  and  down,  con- 
templating the  poor  being,  the  offspring  of  the  workhouse, 
with  strange  attention. 

Micky  was  thin  and  pale,  a  pinched  and  sallow  creature 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  grown  up  in  some  cavern  out  of 
sight  of  the  sun.  His  legs  and  arms  might  have  been  at 
one  time  pulled  taut  as  the  strings  of  a  fiddle,  then  released 
and  allowed  to  curl  up  in  all  manners  of  ways.  The  elbows 
were  drawn  in  against  the  sides,  the  knees  touched  one  an- 
other, the  heels  met,  and  the  feet,  big  and  ungainly,  rested 
flat  as  flukes  on  the  floor.  These  were  crusted  with  clay, 
now  wet,  but  which,  often  drying,  had  chapped  the  skin, 
causing  hacks  out  of  which  blood  was  constantly  oozing. 

The  neck  of  the  youngster,  thin  as  a  lath,  held  on  its 
top  a  big  head,  its  large  eyes  sunk  in  shadow,  the  corners  of 
the  lips  turned  down  as  if  with  continual  anguish  and 
worry.  His  long  thin  legs,  naked  to  the  knees,  red  and 
rough,  were  scarred  here  and  there  as  if  torn  with  bram- 
bles. He  wore  a  pair  of  thready  trousers,  torn  at  rear  and 
unpatched,  and  a  woolen  wrapper  which  Columb  had  used 
for  years  and  to  which  he  now  came  whenever  he  needed  re- 
pairs for  his  own  raiment.  When  he  first  entered  service 
Micky  had  to  thrust  up  the  sleeves  when  working,  but  now 
the  sleeves  only  reached  the  elbows,  the  missing  parts  hav- 
ing been  used  by  Columb  as  patches  for  his  trousers  and 
coat.  At  the  present  moment  Micky  looked  at  Columb  and 
noticed  the  knee  of  the  man's  trousers  torn,  so  the  boy 
knew  that  the  master  would  soon  make  a  further  demand 
on  the  reserve  of  patches.  In  fact,  the  tragedy  of  waste 
and  repair  would  in  the  course  of  time  leave  Micky  per- 
fectly naked. 


322  MAUREEN 

"Well,  and  what's  doin'?"  asked  Columb  when  his  scru- 
tiny came  to  an  end.  "Ye've  been  down  there,  haven't 
ye?" 

"I  have,  Columb." 

"And  now?" 

"I'm  here,  and—" 

"Ye 're  here!"  roared  Columb.  "Of  course  ye 're  here, 
ye  bare-bone,  herrin  '-gutted  rip.  I  'm  not  blind,  am  I  ?  Is 
old  Columb  blind?" 

"I  didn't  say  ye  were  blind,  Columb  Ruagh,"  faltered 
the  youth,  stepping  back  timorously  and  overturning  a  pail. 

"Don't  go  about  as  if  ye  hadn't  an  eye  in  yer  head," 
said  the  red  man  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Look  where  ye 're 
goin'  and  don't  have  two  eyes  but  three  when  ye 're  here. 
Mind  that !  I  'm  yer  master  now,  yer  father,  yer  mother, 
yer  God !  Mind  that  and  mind  it  always,  or  I  '11  make  ye 
mind  it  with  a  stick.  .  .  .  There's  her  cumallye!  There's 
her  cumallye !  Don 't  stand  there  with  yer  mouth  open  like 
a  skaldy!  Shove  the  bucket  under  the  cock!" 

The  still  had  now  been  effervescing  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  the  "cumallye"  to  which  Columb  referred  was  the 
musical  whistle  which  the  worm  gave  forth  as  the  escaping 
steam  rushed  through  it  and  puffed  out  in  vapor  at  the 
mouth.  Columb,  wise  in  the  lore  of  his  profession  and 
versed  in  the  language  of  the  worm,  was  directing  the  boy 
to  place  a  bucket  under  the  spout  to  catch  the  clear  and 
transparent  stream  which  was  now  issuing  from  the  worm. 

Although  clear  in  color  and  tasting  of  whisky,  the  first 
issue  of  the  still,  "singlings,"  was  not  really  fit  to  be  drunk. 
When  all  this  had  been  drawn  the  process  would  be  re- 
peated, and  the  product  of  the  second  operation  would  be 
called  ' '  doublings. ' '  Properly  speaking,  it  would  be  called 
doublings  when  coming  through  the  worm.  Once  it  came 
out  it  would  be  known  as  "potheen."  But  on  this  occa- 
sion the  second  process  was  not  put  into  execution.  In 
fact  the  first  was  not  completed.  When  the  first  bucket  was 
filled  and  the  second  put  in  its  place,  Columb  spoke  to  the 
youngster. 


POTHEEN  323 

"Did  ye  light  the  lamp  when  ye  were  down  there?"  he 
asked. 

"I  lighted  it,  Columb  Ruagh." 

"And  put  it  out  when  ye  came  away  again  and  put  the 
hasp  on  the  door  and  raked  the  fire  ? ' '  asked  Columb. 

"I  didn't  do  neither,  because  there  was  somebody  there," 
said  Micky. 

"Who  was  there?"  asked  the  man,  bending  down  over 
the  boy  and  grabbing  him  by  the  shoulder.  ' '  Who  in  under 
heaven  was  it  ?  What  was  the  person 's  name  ?  Tell  me,  tell 
me,  and  don't  be  a  dummy!"  Columb  knitted  his  brows 
viciously  and  shook  the  boy. 

"Maureen  O'Malley,  from  the  butt  iv  Meenaroodagh, " 
said  Micky,  his  teeth  chattering  and  his  whole  body  quiver- 
ing nervously. 

"Maureen  O'Malley!"  Columb  exclaimed,  releasing  the 
boy  from  his  grip  and  stepping  back  a  pace.  For  a  sec- 
ond he  stood  as  if  petrified,  then  slowly  shoved  his  hands 
down  between  shirt  and  trousers  and  emitted  a  low  whistle. 
He  fixed  a  puzzled  look  on  the  boy,  then  on  the  ground, 
and  then  on  the  boy  again. 

"Maureen  O'Malley!"  he  repeated.  "What  is  she  on 
the  lookout  for  at  this  hour  iv  the  night,  and  what  does  she 
want  in  the  house  below?" 

"She  was  at  the  Boon  Well,"  said  the  youngster,  his 
large  eyes  lighting  up  with  a  certain  pleasure  at  knowing 
something  which  interested  Columb  Ruagh  so  much.  ' '  She 
was  there  the  day,  and  on  her  way  back  she  was  to  meet 
Cathal  Cassidy  at  the  house  below  and  drive  home  with 
him  on  the  cart." 

Columb 's  face  lighted  up  with  a  strange  expression.  A 
hungry  smile  curved  the  corner  of  his  lips,  his  reddish 
eyes  looked  down  as  if  contemplating  something  which  lay 
at  his  feet.  A  fox  with  human  lineaments  might  look  in 
the  same  way  as  it  stands  on  the  mountainside  and  sur- 
veys a  solitary  lamb  caught  in  the  briars  of  a  gully  be- 
neath. When  he  raised  his  eyes  again  and  looked  at  the 
boy  he  saw  that  the  youngster  had  drawn  back  into  the 


324  MAUREEN 

shadows  where  his  vague  outline  had  almost  become  merged 
with  the  gloom.  He  was  gazing  at  Columb  with  a  glance 
of  fear  and  suspicion,  feeling  that  his  master's  look  boded 
evil  for  somebody. 

' '  Here,  ye  whelp ! ' '  said  the  man,  beckoning  to  the  young- 
ster with  his  finger,  "come  closer,  closer  yet.  I  want  to 
speak  to  ye." 

Micky  approached  his  master,  who  reached  out  and 
caught  him  by  the  ear. 

"I  want  ye  to  go  to  the  foot  iv  Binbawn  and  look  under 
the  knowe  that's  in  under  the  hobeen  nearby  Cruckna 
Copall,"  said  Columb,  speaking  slowly  and  weighing  out 
his  words  as  if  they  were  of  exceeding  value.  "Ye  know 
the  place,  don't  ye?  It's  there  that  the  carters  put  the 
jars  and  the  meal  seed  for  me  when  they  take  the  Doo- 
chary  road  from  the  foot  iv  Binbawn.  The  jar  will  be  an 
empty  one  and  covered  up  with  Cheena  to  hide  it  from  the 
eye  of  the  polis.  Ye  know  the  place,  don 't  ye  ? " 

"Ye 're  twistin'  the  ear  off  iv  me,  Columb  Ruagh,"  said 
the  youngster.  "Lemme  go,  won't  ye?" 

"There,  then,"  said  the  man,  giving  the  ear  a  vicious 
tug  before  releasing  his  grip.  "Now,  don't  ye  know  the 
place?" 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  youngster,  again  edging  out  of 
the  way  and  rubbing  his  ear. 

"Well,  ye 're  to  go  there  across  the  braes,  not  be  the 
road,  mind,  and  get  the  jar,"  said  Columb.  "And  when 
ye  get  it,  keep  an  ear  open,  and  if  ye  hear  any  cart  comin' 
at  all  tell  the  driver  that  Cleena  Bridge  is  down,  that  it 
fell  in  the  middle  of  the  day  when  a  heavy  cart  was  goin* 
across  it.  Mind  that.  What  bridge  is  down?" 

"Cleena  Bridge,"  said  the  boy. 

"That's  it,"  said  Columb.  "Cleena  Bridge,  and  when 
Cleena  Bridge  is  down  the  carts  to  Dungarrow  will  have 
to  go  round  Binbawn  down  the  Doochary  road  and  not 
pass  be  the  house  below.  It's  for  their  own  good  that  ye '11 
let  them  know,  for  it  saves  them  four  miles  to  the  bridge 
and  four  miles  back  again  to  the  foot  iv  Binbawn  when 
they  find  that  the  bridge  is  down.  And  keep  your  eyes 


POTHEEN  325 

skinned  for  the  polis,"  added  Columb.    "D-tuigean  thu?" 
"D-tuigean,"  said  the  youngster.     "I'll  scoot  over  the 
braes  if  I  smell  them. ' ' 

"And  if  ye  meet  a  person  don't  tell  them  who  ye  are  or 
where  you  come  from,"  Columb  went  on.  "A  good  lie  is 
more  handy  than  a  supple  leg  many's  a  time.  Don't  tell 
the  cart-drivers  who  ye  are,  either.  If  they  ask  ye  where 
ye  are  bound  for,  say  to  the  back  iv  Sliab  League  or  the 
back  iv  Beyond.  In  this  job  a  close  mouth  is  the  best 
answer  to  many's  a  question.  Now  hook  it  as  if  the  devil 
from  hell  was  at  yer  heels,  and  if  ye  fall  don't  take  time 
to  rise.  And  mind  that  Cleena  Bridge  is  down  when  ye 're 
talkin'  to  the  carters.  Hook  it!" 

The  boy  stared  in  terror  at  Columb  for  a  moment,  then 
began  to  tremble  at  the  knees  and  after  a  second  took  to 
flight  and  without  turning  his  head  rushed  from  the  cave 
into  the  darkness. 

m 

Five  minutes  passed,  and  Columb  remained  standing  still 
in  the  same  attitude,  his  head  bent  forward  and  both  hands 
thrust  down  on  his  hips  between  trousers-waist  and  .shirt. 
He  drew  his  breath  in  slowly,  holding  it  for  long  intervals, 
then  exhaled  violently.  His  eyes,  red  and  contracted  un- 
der the  beetling  brows,  were  fixed  on  the  mouth  of  the 
worm,  through  which  a  thin  stream  of  liquid  fell  as  slowly 
and  soberly  as  castor  oil  poured  from  a  bottle.  The  fire 
was  dying  down;  the  peat  turned  to  ash,  and  now  and 
again  a  stone,  loosened  in  the  circle,  fell  inwards  and 
dropped  into  the  fire  or  outwards  and  sank  with  a  sough  in 
the  slush.  Suddenly  the  sound  of  effervescence  ceased,  and 
the  run  of  liquor  into  the  bucket  by  the  keeve  came  to  an 
end. 

Columb  Ruagh  shivered,  feeling  the  cold  air  of  the  cave, 
buttoned  his  red  shirt  and  lifted  his  gray  woolen  coat  from 
the  stillion.  Glancing  at  it,  he  saw  that  several  blobs  of 
mud  were  sticking  to  it  on  the  tail,  the  lapel,  the  collar 
and  sleeves.  Some  of  these  blobs  were  perfectly  dry, 


326  MAUKEEN 

others  newly  formed  were  moist  and  damp.  The  garment 
was  almost  worn  threadbare,  and  holes  gaped  under  the 
armpits  and  at  the  elbows.  As  Columb  looked  at  these  he 
could  not  help  recalling  the  snugly  groomed  young  men 
who  went  to  church  on  Sundays  and  attended  the  Sein  Fein 
demonstrations  in  Stranarachary. 

' '  And  not  a  penny  among  them  to  rattle  on  a  coffin,  and 
all  the  time  I  could  buy  them  body  and  soul, ' '  said  Columb 
defiantly.  "Old  Columb,  too.  Ah!  the  whelps!" 

He  took  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and  scraped  the  clay 
from  his  coat,  starting  the  job  at  the  collar  and  finishing 
at  the  tail.  Then,  having  snipped  the  strands  of  cloth  that 
stuck  out  from  the  armpits,  he  put  the  coat  on,  went  out 
into  the  darkness  and  made  towards  the  house  below. 

He  went  down  the  hill,  clambering  over  rocks  and  ledges, 
gripping  a  mountain  ash  that  grew  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff 
and  stepping  out  into  space.  For  a  moment  he  would  swing 
in  the  void  as  his  boots  felt  blindly  for  the  projection  which 
he  knew  was  there.  Finding  it  and  securing  foothold,  he 
would  let  the  branch  go  and  listen  as  it  swung  back  again 
with  a  swish  to  its  original  position.  Then  he  would  con- 
tinue his  journey,  clambering  down  inch  by  inch,  finding, 
by  some  mysterious  instinct  known  to  himself  alone,  a 
footing  on  the  smoothest  rock  and  purchase  on  the  flimsi- 
est ledge. 

Coming  to  a  gully  through  which  ran  a  turbulent  stream, 
he  followed  its  course  as  if  by  magic,  jumping  across  whirl- 
ing pools  with  the  most  perfect  self-assurance  and  landing 
safely  on  the  other  side.  For  half  a  mile  he  followed  the 
bed  of  the  stream,  springing  from  stepping-stone  to  step- 
ping-stone in  the  dark  and  never  losing  his  footing.  When 
he  left  the  gully  he  began  running  down  the  braes  that 
led  to  his  own  home.  After  covering  a  few  hundred  yards 
he  stopped,  put  his  hand  over  his  ear  and  listened.  Not  a 
sound  to  be  heard,  and  the  night  so  clear  and  calm  that 
sound  could  travel  a  great  distance ! 

"It's  all  right!"  said  Columb  with  a  laugh,  starting  to 
run  again.  "Cathal  Cassidy's  not  on  the  road  yet,  and  I 


POTHEEN  327 

hope  Micky  gets  hold  iv  him  and  turns  him  back  be  the 
fut  iv  Binbawn.  He  would  call  me  old  Columb,  the  rip, 
and  I  could  buy  him,  body  and  soul ! 

"Buy  him  body  and  soul!"  he  repeated  several  times 
in  succession.  ' '  They  can  call  me  old,  but  I  've  the  money, 
the  hard  money,  and  that's  more  than  some  iv  them  have, 
than  most  iv  them  have  if  it  goes  to  that!  They'll  not 
cross  me !  They  're  f  eeard  iv  me ! ' ' 

He  slowed  down  and  came  to  a  halt  as  he  saw  a  light 
gleam  in  the  valley  below  at  the  Crinnan  cross-roads.  It 
was  the  lamp  burning  in  his  home,  and  there,  sitting  be- 
side the  fire,  was  Maureen  O'Malley,  waiting  for  Cathal 
Cassidy  and  his  cart  to  come.  Probably  she  was  asleep 
now.  As  he  thought  of  this  a  strange  sensation  filled  his 
breast,  and  something  rose  in  his  throat  as  if  choking  him. 
He  could  hardly  breathe,  but  despite  this  a  wild  feeling 
of  joy  welled  up  in  his  being,  causing  his  feet  to  lighten, 
his  heart  to  stand  still.  Time  seemed  to  cease  for  a  mo- 
ment; the  world  stood  suspended.  In  front  of  his  eyes 
hovered  a  blue  light,  a  halo  in  the  center  of  which  was  a 
face,  the  face  of  Maureen  O'Malley.  But  almost  as  soon 
as  he  saw  it  the  picture  faded  away  and  melted  into  the 
background  of  the  hills. 

" Columb 's  mad!"  he  said,  without  moving,  for  he 
wanted  to  recapture  the  vision  again.  "You  big  gawmy  iv 
a  fool,  Columb,  ye 're  mad!"  He  did  not  speak  of  him- 
self as  old  Columb  now.  He  suddenly  felt  very  young,  as 
if  a  new  increase  of  young,  warm,  pulsating  blood  filled 
his  veins.  The  light  of  his  home  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills 
seemed  to  burn  a  pale  blue,  a  color  which  he  had  never 
noticed  in  the  light  before. 

He  walked  towards  it  hurriedly  for  a  distance,  but  as  he 
drew  nearer  his  step  became  slower  and  slower.  He  walked 
with  shoulders  squared  and  head  straight  as  if  wanting 
somebody  near  at  hand  to  notice  his  fine  appearance,  his 
youthful  gait,  his  superiority.  In  fact  he  was  ready  to  dare 
anything  now,  but  still  he  walked  slowly,  as  if  afraid.  This 
sudden  feeling  of  timidity  annoyed  him.  Never  before  in 


328  MAUREEN 

all  his  life  had  he  known  such  a  feeling.  Never  before, 
and  he  was  a  man  well  on  in  years,  not  so  far  on,  but  still 
so  far  that  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  Not  as  young  as 
some  of  the  fellows,  he  would  admit,  but  for  all  that  not 
BO  old.  And  then  he  was  stronger  than  most,  supple  as 
an  eel,  and  in  addition  he  had  the  money.  If  he  had  not 
a  good  suit  on  his  back  he  could  buy  one,  aye,  half-a-dozen 
suits  of  the  best  cloth  going,  and  then  not  miss  the  few 
pence  that  they  cost  him. 

When  he  came  near  the  window  he  moved  slowly,  very 
slowly,  taking  care  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible.  He 
came  within  six  paces  of  the  window,  then  stopped  as  if 
lacking  power  to  go  any  further. 

"  I  'm  a  fool, ' '  he  said  in  a  whisper  as  if  goading  himself 
to  further  progress.  Then  with  a  manly  effort  he  con- 
quered his  hesitation,  approached  the  window,  leant  on 
the  sill  and  looked  in,  his  grubby  jaw  pressed  against  the 
pane,  his  heart  palpitating  as  if  it  would  burst. 

Maureen  O'Malley  was  inside.  She  sat  by  the  fire  on 
the  only  chair  which  the  single-roomed  cabin  contained. 
Her  head  was  bent  down  as  if  she  were  looking  into  the 
flames,  her  eyes  hidden  by  the  stray  tresses  that  hung  over 
her  brows,  the  lower  portion  of  her  face  sunk  in  shadow. 

Bound  her  shoulders  was  a  shawl,  the  lower  tassels  of 
which  rested  on  her  knees.  Under  the  shawl  appeared  a 
dark  brown  woolen  skirt,  raised  ever  so  slightly  and  dis- 
closing to  view  a  pair  of  boots,  a  little  splashed  with  mud, 
but  oh !  so  small. 

"She  has  the  weest  feet  in  the  world,"  Columb  whis- 
pered. "Just  the  kind  that  Kathleen  Malley  had  when 
she  went  to  the  dances  years  gone." 

He  straightened  himself  with  a  start  as  the  girl  raised 
her  head.  Stepping  back,  he  squared  his  shoulders  as  if 
on  the  point  of  attempting  some  hazardous  feat. 

"Ye  would  think  that  it  wasn't  me  own  house  at  all," 
he  muttered  savagely.  "And  me  afeeard  to  go  in." 

He  straightened  his  coat,  sorted  the  neck  of  his  shirt, 
went  to  the  door,  which  was  open,  and  stepped  inside. 


POTHEEN  329 

IV 

"Is  it  yerself  that  I  see,  Maureen  Malley?"  he  asked, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  the  girl.  He  felt  strangely  excited 
and  happy  as  she  caught  his  hand  and  said:  "It's  yer- 
self at  last,  Columb.  I  was  waitin'  till  ye'd  come  in,  for 
it's  a  lonely  spot  iv  the  world  up  here  with  nobody  at  all. 
How  is  it  that  ye  can  live  here  all  on  yer  lone?" 

"People  must  live  somewhere,"  said  Columb  with  a 
rough  sigh.  "If  they  don't  live  here  they  have  to  live 
somewhere  else,  and  one's  as  well  here." 

"Without  a  neighbor  or  any  one  to  know  how  ye  are!" 
said  the  girl,  drawing  her  hand  away.  "If  the  sickness 
came  on  ye  here,  what  would  ye  do  at  all?" 

"Die  as  likely  as  not,"  said  Columb  with  a  shrug  of 
bravado.  "One  might  as  well  die  here  as  down  at  Meena- 
roodagh,  for  it's  all  the  same  to  the  grave-digger." 

"But  without  a  priest  to  put  the  Holy  Oil  on  ye  and 
ye  goin'  out  iv  the  world,"  said  Maureen,  her  face 
assuming  an  expression  of  pity.  Then  in  a  lighter  tone 
and  smiling,  "Iv  course,  ye  don't  mean  what  ye  say, 
Columb." 

"Well,  we'll  leave  it  at  that,"  said  the  man,  implying 
by  his  tone  that  it  didn't  really  matter  whether  his  re- 
mark was  believed  or  not.  "Now,  tell  me,"  he  went  on, 
as  he  threw  half  a  dozen  turf  on  the  fire,  "was  it  to  the 
Doon  Well  that  ye  went  the  day,  Maureen?" 

"That  it  was,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low  and  serious  voice. 
"I  went  there  in  the  morn." 

"Well,  I  didn't  see  ye  passin',"  said  Columb.  "Was 
it  this  way  that  ye  came  ? ' ' 

"Round  here,"  said  the  girl.  "But  it  was  so  early  that 
nobody  was  up  at  all  on  the  first  part  iv  the  journey." 

"And  weren't  ye  feeard?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  the  girl.  "As  long  as  it  was  dark  I 
kept  sayin'  me  Rosary,  and  that  kept  me  from  thinkin'. 
'Twas  lonely  enough  here  under  the  black  iv  the  hills  and 
the  sounds  that  was  in  it  iv  things  flyin'  and  screechin' 


330  MAUREEN 

and  makin'  a  noise  like  ghosts,  and  maybe  them  only  moor- 
hens or  weasels  for  all  I  knew." 

"They  do  make  a  noise  at  night,"  said  Columb,  sitting 
on  a  heap  of  bags  by  the  corner  of  the  wall  and  taking  a 
pipe  from  his  pocket.  "They  do  make  a  noise  be  night, 
and  dark  nights  more  than  any  other,  when  ye  can't  see 
them.  Now  if  I'd  seen  ye  on  the  road,  Maureen  Malley, 
I'd  keep  ye  company  on  the  journey  till  the  break  iv 
mornin '. ' ' 

He  took  a  spale  from  the  hob,  lit  it  and  put  it  to  his 
pipe.  He  felt  very  much  at  his  ease  now. 

"But  ye  weren't  up  at  that  hour,  Columb,"  said  the 
girl.  "  'Twas  about  three  o'clock  in  the  mornin'." 

"I  wasn't  in  bed  at  the  time,"  said  the  man,  with  a  far- 
fetched laugh.  "I  was  at  work  then  at  me  job." 

"  'Twas  early  enough  to  be  on  any  job,"  said  the  girl. 
"Was  it  the  job?" 

"  'Twas  that,"  said  Columb,  edging  his  seat  near  Mau- 
reen's chair.  He  was  filled  with  a  sudden  desire  to  tell 
her  everything,  his  manner  of  living,  his  work,  the  risks 
he  ran,  the  trials  he  encountered.  "It's  a  great  job,"  he 
said.  "And  it  takes  a  man  to  grapple  with  it.  None  iv 
them  that's  down  Meenaroodagh  would  care  to  face  it,  I'll 
warrant.  Now,  what  d'ye  think  yerself  about  it?  Would 
any  of  the  raw-bones  down  there  stay  up  here  and  live  all 
be  themselves  just  like  me  ?  Would  they  sit  up  all  the  night 
and  not  know  at  what  minit  the  polis  would  come  down  on 
them  and  grab  them  ?  Could  any  iv  them  go  up  the  awlths 
be  night  or  come  down  them  and  not  know  when  they  fall 
and  break  their  necks?  Not  one  iv  them  I  bate,  for  they 
haven't  the  heart  like  me.  No,  they  haven't  the  heart  like 
me,  like  Columb  Ruagh." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  put  his  pipe  back  in  his  pocket. 
A  strange  light  in  his  eyes,  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on 
his  brow,  and  the  veins  on  his  temple  swelled  as  if  they 
had  been  inflated  by  a  pump.  Maureen  0 'Malley  shrank 
back  affrighted  and  glanced  at  the  open  door  through  th« 
corner  of  her  eye,  mentally  debating  whether  she  should 
run  out  into  the  darkness  or  remain  in  the  cabin. 


POTHEEN  331 

"111  bate  ye  that  not  one  iv  them  would  do  it,"  he 
said,  approaching  Maureen  and  touching  her  on  the  shoul- 
der, the  forced  self-possession  and  matter-of-fact  tone  of  a 
few  minutes  before  giving  way  to  a  wild  outburst  of  self- 
glorification.  "For  why?  It's  because  they  haven't  the 
heart  in  them,  the  skinny  good-for-nothin's.  That  for  them 
from  Columb  Euagh" — he  snapped  his  fingers  viciously 
and  hissed  through  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  "Here  I  am 
and  up  here  in  rags,  and  I  could  buy  them  body  and  soul, 
any  iv  them  and  all  iv  them !  And  they  wear  collars  and 
they  wear  ties  and  what  not,  but  now  I  put  it  to  yerself, 
Maureen  Malley.  Can  any  iv  them  show  a  well-lined  purse, 
and  if  it  comes  to  that,  put  their  shoulders  under  a  load 
that  I  can  carry?  Now  I  put  it  to  yerself,  Maureen  Mal- 
ley; can  they  do  it?" 

"No,  iv  course  they  cannot,  Columb,"  said  the  girl, 
striving  to  pacify  the  man.  "Old  as  ye  are,  ye  can  do  a 
sight  better  than  many  iv  them  yet." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose,  went  to  the  door  and  stood  there 
for  a  moment  in  the  attitude  of  listening,  her  hand  resting 
on  the  door-post.  She  looked  back  at  Columb  and  drew 
her  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  The  cold  night  air  blew 
round  her  and  into  the  cabin. 

"There's  not  a  noise  on  the  road  at  all,"  she  said,  "and 
the  night's  as  black  as  a  chimley  with  no  fire  in  it." 

"Then  come  and  sit  down  here  and  warm  yerself,"  said 
the  man,  touching  the  turf  on  the  hearth  with  his  boot 
and  sending  a  shower  of  sparks  flying  up  against  the  soot. 
One  caught  in  the  blackness,  rested  there,  merged  with  the 
background,  and  then  flared  up  again.  It  radiated  out- 
wards in  tentacles  of  flame,  streaks  and  streams  of  fire, 
every  spark  glittering  like  a  diamond  on  a  dress  of  satin. 

' '  Sit  down  here  on  the  chair  and  warm  yerself, ' '  Columb 
repeated,  in  a  voice  which  had  suddenly  become  gentle 
and  caressing.  "Ye '11  be  tired  after  the  long  journey  that 
ye've  had.  And  pull  the  door  to  and  put  the  hasp  in  it. 
The  night's  bitter  cold  with  the  wind  from  the  top  iv  the 
black  hills." 

Maureen  shut  the  door,  dropping  the  wooden  hasp  in  its 


332  MAUREEN 

notch,  came  back  to  the  fire  and  sat  down.  The  man  looked 
at  her  with  a  kindly,  almost  tender  glance. 

"Ye 're  cold,  Maureen,"  he  said  softly.  "And  tired,  too. 
The  journey  to  the  Doon  "Well  was  too  much  for  them  wee 
feet  iv  yours."  He  looked  at  the  boots  that  now  rested  in 
the  ashes.  "It's  the  tramp  for  a  man  and  not  for  yerself, 
Maureen. ' ' 

"It's  not  the  first  long  tramp  that  I've  had,"  said  the 
girl.  "When  I  went  all  the  way  to  Strabane  two  years 
gone  it  was  a  tramp  I'm  tellin'  ye.  It  took  me  many's  a 
hard  hour  to  do  it." 

"It  was  far  and  away  too  much  for  them  wee  feet  iv 
yours,"  said  the  man  again.  Then  he  rose  and  gave  the 
fire  another  kick.  As  before  the  body  of  sparks  showered 
up  the  chimney,  though  a  few  spurted  outwards  and  fell 
on  the  hearth  and  died  away. 

"I'll  make  ye  a  drop  iv  tay,"  he  said.  "There's  a  tay- 
pot  in  the  corner  and  a  kettle." 

"No  tay,  Columb,  thank  ye  all  the  same,"  said  the  girl. 

"Or  a  wee  drop  iv  potheen,"  said  the  man.  "I've  it 
here,  lots  iv  it  in  a  jar.  It'll  keep  ye  from  goin'  to  sleep 
and  put  heart  into  ye." 

"I've  never  put  it  to  me  lips,"  said  Maureen.  "It's  the 
Bishop 's  pledge  that  I  have,  and  it 's  not  up  for  over  a  year 
yet.  It  won't  be  long  now  till  Cathal  Cassidy  and  his  cart 
comes  by.  He  should  be  here  at  any  minit  now. ' ' 

As  she  mentioned  the  name  of  Cathal,  Columb  utterly 
lost  his  self-control.  Anger  and  spleen  distorted  his  face 
out  of  recognition.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  commenced  walking 
to  and  fro  across  the  room  from  the  fire  to  the  doorway. 
Several  minutes  went  by  while  he  continued  his  tramp, 
muttering  something  under  his  breath.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  and  looked  at  Maureen,  his  eyes  afire,  his  lips 
pressed  together  in  a  hard  thin  line. 

"So  that's  what  ye  are  waiting  for?"  he  asked  irritably, 
though  from  the  beginning  he  knew  that  the  girl  was  wait- 
ing to  go  home  with  Cathal  Cassidy.  "That's  what  ye 're 
waitin'  for  here,  is  it,  Maureen  Malley?" 

"Well,  I'm  wantin*  the  ride  home,  and  it's  not  every 


POTHEEN  333 

hour  iv  the  day  and  night  that  a  cart  passes  this  way  to 
Dungarrow,"  she  said  in  a  deep-toned  and  energetic  voice. 
She  smiled.  "You  didn't  think  that  I  was  goin'  to  travel 
home  when  there  was  a  chance  iv  a  cart  to  the  very  door, 
did  ye  now,  Columb  Ruagh?"  she  pleaded. 

"Iv  course  not,  Maureen,  but  I  can't  stand  these  fellows 
down  there,"  said  Columb,  speaking  in  a  harsh  whisper 
and  looking  Maureen  between  the  eyes.  Then  as  if  coming 
to  a  certain  decision  he  added :  ' '  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  I 
must  foot  it  up  to  the  hill  again  and  get  to  my  work." 

"But  it's  near  bedtime,  Columb,"  said  the  girl.  "Ye 're 
not  going  out  to  work  at  this  time,  and  it 's  near  midnight. ' ' 

"It's  now  that  I  begin  my  work,"  said  the  man  resign- 
edly. "I'll  get  up  to  Garry  Ruddagh  and  do  something. 
.  .  .  Night 's  the  time  for  doing  the  work  up  at  Garry  Rud- 
dagh." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Columb  Ruagh  sat  down 
and  slowly  drew  his  black  clay  pipe  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  put  it  in  his  mouth.  His  whole  face,  the  posture 
of  his  body,  the  one  leg  stretched  lazily  across  the  other, 
the  hand  fumbling  carelessly  for  tobacco  in  the  pocket  of 
his  woolen  wrapper,  betokened  extreme  indifference,  so  ap- 
parently extreme  after  the  excitement  of  a  few  moments 
before  that  it  could  scarcely  be  considered  real.  Doubtless 
he  had  formulated  a  project  in  his  mind,  of  which  the 
issue  was  certain. 

"Well,  I'll  stay  here  and  wait  for  the  cart,"  said  the 
girl.  "It'll  be  sure  to  come  any  minit  now." 

He  took  a  plug  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket,  cut  a  few 
slices  from  it  and  put  the  knife  and  the  plug  on  the  floor. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  girl. 

"Ye  wouldn't  stay  here  waitin'  in  the  dark  for  Cathal 
Cassidy,  would  ye,  if  I  took  ye  round  and  let  ye  have  a 
look  at  what's  hid  behind  the  back  iv  Garry  Ruddagh?" 
said  Columb  Ruagh,  holding  the  pipe  in  the  fork  of  his 
hand  while  he  crumbled  the  tobacco  in  his  palm.  "It's 
somethin'  to  show  ye,  mind,  and  it's  a  lot  the  polis  in 
Stranarachary  would  give  to  get  their  eyes  on  the  same 
sight.  Not  one  body  from  here  to  the  heel  iv  the  barony 


334  MAUREEN 

has  ever  seen  the  place  be  night  with  the  fire  lit  and  the 
still  on  the  fire.  Now,  it's  not  yerself  that  would  mind 
comin'  with  me  to  have  a  wee  sight." 

"It's  not  me  that  would  care  a  hair  if  it  was  be  day- 
light, ' '  said  the  girl,  ' '  without  it  being  so  black  on  the  brae 
face.  Besides,  too,  it's  near  time  that  Cathal  was  comin' 
and  him  that  should  be  back  from  the  fair  iv  Kineeragh 
two  hours  back  or  more." 

"But  it's  not  him  that  will  be  here  yet,  for  more  than 
three  hours  from  now,"  said  Columb  Ruagh,  spitting  from 
between  his  teeth  into  the  embers.  "It's  slack  feet  that 
the  same  Cathal  has  when  it's  gettin'  away  from  the  fun  iv 
the  fair  that  he  bees.  He 's  a  divil  for  fun,  the  same  laddy- 
buck  I'm  tellin'  ye." 

"Not  more  than  the  other  gasairs,"  said  Maureen, 
slightly  nettled.  "And  if  he  is  itself,  it's  the  way  with 
young  blood  all  the  world  over." 

"It  may  be,  indeed,"  said  the  potheen-maker  angrily, 
spitting  into  the  fire  again.  "It's  the  way  iv  the  young- 
sters, as  ye  say.  But  they  learn  sense  after  a  bit,  and  al- 
ways when  it  is  too  late.  Look  at  them  now!  They  take 
it  into  their  heads  to  marry  and  they  havin'  no  more  than 
would  buy  a  basket  iv  sgiddins  to  their  name." 

"But  what  would  that  matter  if  they've  strong  arms  to 
do  a  day's  work  and  warm  blood  in  them?"  said  the  girl. 
"It's  better  to  be  married  on  a  man  like  Cathal  and  him 
maybe  without  a  white  sixpence  than  to  many's  a  one  with 
plenty  of  money." 

Columb  Ruagh  winced  and  ground  his  teeth.  Being  a 
man  past  middle-age,  the  light-hearted  assurance  of  the 
young  girl  annoyed  him. 

"Well,  be  that  as  it  may,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
forgetting  to  light  the  full  pipe  which  he  held  in  his  mouth, 
"we'll  get  out  and  see  all  that's  to  be  seen  at  the  back  iv 
Garry  Ruddagh.  Now,  are  ye  comin'  with  me,  or  are  ye 
not?" 

"Is  it  a  far  step  from  here?"  asked  the  girl,  also  get- 
ting to  her  feet  and  wrapping  her  shawl  round  her  head. 

"Not  so  far,"  said  the  man. 


POTHEEN  335 

"Can  we  hear  any  noise  that  may  be  on  the  road  from 
there?"  asked  Maureen. 

"Iv  course  we  can,"  said  Columb. 

"Will  Cathal  be  within  earshot  if  we  shout?"  Maureen 
asked. 

"Iv  course  he  will,"  Columb  replied.  "It's  far  that  a 
voice  can  carry  on  a  night  like  this.  Once  we  get  on  the 
top  iv  Garry  Ruddagh  and  give  a  shout  yer  voice  can  get 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  parish.  Come  away  at  once, 
and  we'll  be  there  and  back  in  plenty  iv  time,"  said  Co- 
lumb, bustling  round  with  unusual  animation.  He  lifted 
a  bottle  from  the  corner,  drew  the  cork  and  smelt  it. 
Throwing  it  in  the  straw  piled  by  the  wall,  he  buttoned  his 
coat,  pulled  down  an  ash-plant  from  the  rafters  and  beat 
the  ground  several  times  as  if  testing  the  pliancy  of  the 
stick. 

"A  good  bit  iv  a  plant,  that,"  he  said.  "The  mark  iv  it 
is  on  more  than  the  head  iv  one  polisman  in  Stranara- 
chary.  ...  It  has  stopped  some  iv  them  from  nosin'  round 
this  arm  iv  the  world!" 

Maureen  looked  at  the  man  and  crossed  herself. 

"What's  up  with  ye  now?"  he  asked  irritably.  "It's  a 
polisman  that  I  hit  with  it,  not  yerself.  What  are  ye  mak- 
in'  the  sign  iv  the  Cross  for?  Are  ye  afeeard  iv  me?" 

He  looked  into  the  girl's  eyes  and  a  bitter  smile  showed 
at  the  corner  of  his  lips.  Maureen  smiled  uneasily  and 
looked  at  the  ground. 

"It's  not  afraid  iv  ye  that  I  am,"  said  the  girl.  "God 
forbid  it." 

"Why?"  he  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Ye  are  so  old,"  said  Maureen.  "And  ye  are  a  decent 
man,  one  that  wouldn't  do  the  like  iv  me  any  harm." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  wouldn't  do  ye  any  harm,"  said 
Columb  with  an  air  of  resignation.  "But  I'm  not  an  old 
man  at  all.  Forty-two  I  am,  come  next  Hallowe'en,  and  a 
tidy  penny  by  me.  That's  more  than  some  iv  them  that  I 
know  have.  And  no  end  iv  land,  hill  and  holm,  with  plenty 
iv  sheep  on  it,  too." 

"Ill  wait  here  for  Cathal 's  cart,"  said  Maureen  as  if 


336  MAUREEN 

coming  to  a  sudden  decision.     "It'll  surely  not  be  long 
afore  he  comes." 

"Well,  it's  not  in  me  to  speak  against  ye  doing  what 
ye  like,"  said  Columb  with  a  singularly  good-natured 
look.  "Ye  can  wait  for  him  if  ye  want  to.  Everybody  to 
their  own  way  iv  doin'  things,  and  I'm  not  one  to  prevent 
them." 

He  went  to  the  door,  looked  out  into  the  night,  then 
turned  round  and  gazed  at  the  girl. 

"It'll  be  a  bit  cold  waitin'  out  here,"  he  said.  "And 
it's  a  lonely  place  and  all.  'Twas  here  that  Myles  Andy 
Og  was  killed  close  on  forty  years  back  and  him  buried 
outside  this  very  door,  God  rest  him ! ' ' 

"There  was  a  man  killed  here?"  gasped  the  girl. 

"  'Twas  a  dirty  crime,"  said  Columb.  "And  him  on 
the  way  home  from  the  fair  iv  Kineeragh,  with  his  pockets 
full  iv  money.  He  was  set  on  here,  killed  and  buried,  and 
it  was  close  on  three  years  after  that  that  his  body  was 
found.  And  dyin'  without  the  priest,  too!  A  man  that 
goes  like  that  is  never  at  rest ! ' ' 

"God  be  between  us  and  harm,  but  I've  never  heard 
iv  it,"  said  the  girl,  again  crossing  herself.  "But  there 
be  so  many  stories. ' ' 

"This  is  a  true  one,"  said  the  man.  "It's  more  than 
once  I've  heard  steps  outside  and  rappin'  on  the  door 
when  I  stayed  here  me  lone  at  night.  It  comes  every  night 
about  twelve  o'clock.  A  week  come  the  morra  I  was  here 
all  me  lone  and  makin'  langles  for  a  wether  that  had  a 
way  iv  climbin'  on  the  rocks  over  the  brae  face.  And  the 
darkness  that  was  outside  a  torch  couldn't  cut  through 
it.  And  me  sittin'  there  all  on  me  own,  too.  All  at  once 
there  was  a  sound  iv  steps  outside,  quick  steps  as  if  some- 
body was  on  the  run  with  the  fright  in  his  bones.  'Mother 
iv  God!  and  what  will  it  be  at  all?'  says  I  to  myself,  and 
the  cold  sweat  was  out  on  me  forehead.  'It's  somethin' 
that's  not  iv  the  world  that's  in  it,  surely.'  It  came  to 
the  door  whatever  it  was  and  began  to  scrape  as  if  on  the 
grope  for  the  hasp.  'Who  are  ye?'  says  I.  'And  what  is 
it  that  ye  are  wantin'?'  But  not  an  answer,  only  the  same 


POTHEEN  337 

gropin'  and  serapin'  for  the  hasp.  I  went  to  the  winder 
and  up  with  the  blind  and  looks  out.  But  not  a  hilt  or 
hair  iv  anything  was  to  be  seen,  bar  a  sheep  that  was 
standin'  on  a  knowe  forenenst  the  door.  And  there  was  a 
wind  bio  win'  down  from  the  hills,  and  the  sky  was  full  iv 
stars  just  like  the  night,  with  a  frost  over  everything. 
.  .  .  Glory!  it's  the  lonely  place  that  it  is  here  be  night 
and  one  their  lone.  But  I  never  stay  here  at  midnight 
now.  I  leave  the  place,  hasp  the  door  and  get  to  my 
work.  It's  not  good  for  a  man  or  baste  to  be  here  with  all 
the  dark  happenin'  iv  midnight." 

Maureen's  face  worked  convulsively,  her  eyes  quivered 
nervously  and  her  lips  trembled.  When  Columb  ceased 
speaking,  she  kept  silent  and  fumbled  with  the  corners  of 
her  shawl.  Suddenly  she  closed  her  lips  tightly  and  looked 
at  the  man. 

"I'll  stay  here  and  wait  till  Cathal  comes,"  she  said 
coldly.  "He'll  not  be  long  till  he's  here  now." 

"He  mayn't  be  long,"  said  Columb  with  affected  care- 
lessness. "And  again  it  may  be  a  good  while.  With  his 
poor  ranny  iv  a  horse  one  never  can  tell  what's  goin'  to 
happen.  And  the  pull  up  the  Cleena  Brae  past  Binbawn 
is  more  than  any  animal  from  Cathal's  holdin'  can  do 
aisy.  And  then  it's  not  warm  for  ye  to  stand  out  here  in 
the  cold  on  the  knowe  where  Myles  Andy  Og  was  mur- 
dered." 

"But  it's  inside  here  that  I'll  wait,"  said  Maureen 
anxiously. 

"If  I  could  let  ye  stay  in  here  be  the  fire  I'd  be  more 
than  glad,"  said  Columb,  turning  away  from  the  girl  and 
speaking  out  into  the  darkness.  "It  goes  against  the  grain 
in  me  to  turn  ye  out,  but  the  door  has  to  be  hasped.  The 
polis  have  their  eyes  on  me,  and  I  don't  want  them  to 
come  in  when  I'm  away.  If  I'd  be  in  when  they  came, 
I'd  give  them  a  welcome  that  they'd  not  forget.  But  as 
it's  for  me  to  be  out  at  me  work  I  can't  lave  the  door  open 
for  everybody.  It's  beggars  and  tinkers  and  tramps  that's 
often  about  be  night,  and  they  would  be  comin'  in  maybe 
and  takin'  what's  not  theirs." 


338  MAUREEN 

"And  is  it  me  to  wait  out  in  front  iv  the  house  with 
the  ghost  iv  the  dead  man,  God  be  between  us  and  harm" — 
Maureen  crossed  herself — "walkin'  about  at  the  dead  iv 
night?" 

"I'd  stay  here  with  ye  if  it  was  in  me  power  to  do 
that, ' '  said  Columb  in  a  voice  of  feigned  sympathy.  ' '  But 
honest  to  God,  I  can't  do  it!  It's  lashin's  iv  money  that 
has  went  to  the  fillin'  iv  the  still,  the  barley  grain,  oat- 
meal and  meal  seed,  and  one  never  knows  when  the  polis 
will  swoop  down  on  it  and  all  yer  earnin's  go  to  pot. 
.  .  .  But  I've  got  to  shake  me  legs  now,  Maureen.  .  .  . 
"Will  ye  be  comin'  with  me?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Maureen  icily.  "Go  be  yerself  and 
I'll  wait  outside  in  the  cold." 

"As  ye  please,  Maureen,"  said  the  man,  standing  aside 
to  let  the  girl  pass  out.  "I  would  like  to  let  ye  have  the 
heat  iv  the  fire,  but  one  never  knows  when  the  house  is 
goin*  to  be  searched,  Maureen." 

The  girl  moved  a  few  paces  away  from  the  door,  sat  on 
a  heather  brough  and  wrapped  her  shawl  tightly  round 
her  shoulders  and  neck.  The  night  was  very  cold  with 
a  sharp  breeze  blowing  from  the  hills  and  the  ground  be- 
neath her  feet  frozen  hard.  Overhead  the  sky  was  studded 
with  clear  stars  which  seemed  to  look  down  on  the  bleak 
country  with  a  taciturn  and  pitiless  stare.  All  round, 
the  bleak  hills  of  Donegal  rose  to  the  sky.  Not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard  save  the  plaintive  bleating  of  sheep  on 
the  braes,  the  cry  of  a  belated  moorfowl  and  the  noise  of 
some  far-off  stream  falling  over  the  rocks.  The  house 
of  Columb  Ruagh,  into  which  the  man  had  disappeared, 
was  grave-silent. 

Presently  he  came  out,  however,  carrying  a  bundle  under 
his  arm.  It  was  part  of  the  pile  of  hay  which  was  stored 
in  the  cabin.  He  placed  it  on  the  ground  at  Maureen's 
feet. 

"This  is  for  ye  to  sit  on,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  girl. 
"Just  put  yer  two  wee  feet  in  the  middle  iv  the  hay,  lie 
in  again  the  knowe  and  ye '11  be  as  snug  as  a  sparrow  in 
the  thatch." 


POTHEEN  339 

"Thanks  to  ye,"  said  Maureen  in  a  dry  voice,  "but  it's 
all  right  that  I  am,  sittin'  here  without  the  hay." 

"Ah!  if  that's  the  way  ye  take  a  kindness  ye  can  plase 
yerself,  indeed,"  said  Columb  resentfully.  "But  I'm  tell- 
in'  ye  that  the  wait  will  be  a  long  one,  for  Cleena  Brae 
between  Binbawn  and  the  Bridge  is  a  hard  pull  and  a 
long  one  for  Cathal's  bit  iv  a  baste." 

"Well,  be  it  long  or  short  I'll  wait,  sittin'  here  on  the 
knowe,"  said  the  girl,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "If  it's 
not  goin'  to  let  me  in  and  stay  be  the  fire  I  have  nothin' 
more  to  say  to  ye,  Columb  Ruagh." 

"Plase  yerself  about  that,  Maureen,"  said  Columb  in 
a  surly  voice.  "  If  it 's  yer  own  wish  to  stay  there  I  'm  not 
the  one  to  hinder  ye.  But  if  ye  allow  me  I'd  advise  to  sit 
be  the  other  side  iv  the  house.  There's  more  shelter  there 
and  it's  not  as  lonesome.  Ye 're  sittin'  on  the  knowe  where 
Myles  Andy  met  his  death,  this  very  minute." 

"And  was  this  the  very  place  ?""  asked  Maureen  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

"This  was  the  place  and  no  other,"  said  Columb.  "He 
was  takin'  the  near  cut  across  the  hills  here,  and  the  men 
that  was  lookin'  for  him  were  in  hidin'  at  the  back  iv  the 
knowe.  He  was  hit  with  the  supple  iv  a  flail  across  the^ 
head,  and  he  went  down  like  a  bullock  fallin'  in  an  awlth. 
And  then  the  men  picked  him  up,  skinned  him  iv  all  that 
was  on  him  and  buried  him." 

"How  d'ye  know  so  much  iv  what  happened  and  him 
killed  afore  ye  were  born  ? ' '  Maureen  inquired  in  a  fright- 
ened voice.  ' '  Ye  speak  as  if  ye  were  here  at  the  very  time 
that  the  murder  was  done." 

"I  wasn't  here  at  the  time,  but  I  heard  iv  it,"  said 
Columb.  ' '  Things  bees  done  and  people  speak  about  them. 
Maybe  it's  them  that  had  a  hand  in  the  job  that  told  me 
iv  it.  It's  a  lot  that  a  man  can  hear  and  him  livin'  be 
himself  up  here  on  the  hills." 

"It's  much  that  he  hears,"  said  the  girl.  "And  much 
that's  not  good.  And  it's  black  hearts  they  have,  them 
that  will  wait  in  the  dark  night  and  kill  a  man." 

"And  a  man  that's  killed  and  put  out  iv  the  world  with 


340  MAUREEN 

never  a  priest  to  forgive  him  and  bless  him  in  his  last 
minute  cannot  rest  in  his  grave  at  all,"  said  Columb. 
' '  It  'ud  be  better  for  ye  not  to  sit  here  at  all  but  come  with 
me  up  to  Garry  Ruddagh." 

"It's  here  that  I'll  stay  whatever  ye  say,"  said  the  girl 
in  a  low  tone,  but  turning  away  from  the  man.  "It  won't 
be  long  till  I  hear  the  cart  now." 

"Maybe  not,"  said  Columb,  putting  his  hand  over  his 
ear.  "Maybe  not,  but  it's  far  that  the  sound  iv  anything 
will  carry  on  a  night  like  this.  It's  often  in  the  dark  that 
the  sound  iv  a  cart  comin'  round  Binbawn  can  be  heard 
here,  and  Binbawn  six  miles  away.  But  as  it  is,  I  can't 
hear  anything  now,  and  the  wind  coming  from  Kineeragh. ' ' 

"It's  a  cold  place  living  here,"  said  the  girl  suddenly, 
turning  to  the  man  and  looking  him  between  the  eyes. 
"People  down  in  Meenaroodagh  bees  often  speakin'  about 
ye  up  here,  and  it's  nothin'  good  that  they  be  sayin'  about 
ye  at  all." 

Columb 's  eyes  glistened  and  he  trembled  violently. 

"What  do  they  be  sayin'?"  he  asked  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. 

"Ah!  that's  it,"  said  the  girl.  "What  do  they  be  say- 
in'?" 

She  drew  her  head  closer  to  the  man,  speaking  in  a 
tragic  whisper,  and  Columb  shuddered. 

"What  d'ye  mane?"  he  muttered.  "What  is  it  that 
ye 're  drivin'  at?" 

"Nothin',"  said  the  girl  in  a  calm  voice.  "Nothin'  at 
all." 

"Tell  me  what  ye  mane  about  what  they  be  sayin'  down 
there?"  he  entreated,  placing  his  face  closer  to  hers  and 
speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"Not  out  here,"  said  Maureen.  "Not  out  in  the  cold 
like  a  beggar  at  the  door,  askin'  for  a  bit  and  sup." 

Columb  held  himself  erect  and  twisted  the  ash-plant 
around  his  shoulders. 

"That's  what  ye 're  wantin'!"  he  cried,  nosing  the  hid- 
den purpose.  "It's  tryin'  to  keep  me  here  that  ye  are 


POTHEEN  341 

after,  till  the  cart  comes  and  ye  can  get  away.  I  know 
them  capers.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  lave  ye  here  and  get  up  to 
Garry  Ruddagh.  And  mind,  when  I'm  gone  I  offered  to 
take  ye  with  me." 

' '  I  '11  not  forget  it,  Columb  Ruagh, ' '  said  Maureen.  ' '  And 
God  be  with  ye!" 


Without  another  word  Columb  Ruagh  made  off  and  lost 
himself  in  the  darkness.  For  a  few  moments  Maureen 
could  hear  the  sound  of  his  retreating  footsteps  and  felt 
a  certain  solace  in  knowing  that  some  one  was  near.  But 
after  a  while  the  sounds  died  away  and  Maureen  was  left 
alone  with  the  night.  Tucking  her  feet  up  under  her 
skirt  and  reclining  on  her  elbow  she  mechanically  looked 
along  the  road  to  Binbawn.  In  that  direction  Cathal 
Cassidy  would  come  presently.  It  was  now  near  the  hour 
of  midnight,  the  black  hour  when  Myles  Andy  Og  would 
rise  from  his  grave  and  wander  over  the  moor.  As  the 
girl  thought  of  the  dead  man  she  shuddered  and  nestled 
in  to  the  knowe,  resting  her  back  against  the  hob  of  earth. 

"But  it  was  lies  that  Columb  Ruagh  was  tellin*  me," 
she  said.  "It's  the  bad,  black  heart  that  the  man  has, 
him  and  his  potheen  on  Garry  Ruddagh." 

But  though  the  girl  had  an  instinctive  dread  of  Columb 
Ruagh  when  in  his  presence,  she  felt  doubly  afraid  now 
that  he  was  gone.  Now  she  was  alone.  Not  a  light  was 
to  be  seen  anywhere.  If  a  lamp  gleamed,  even  miles  away, 
it  would  give  her  some  courage.  She  would  know  that 
people  were  still  awake  somewhere,  and  even  that  would 
be  company.  She  pulled  her  feet  further  up  under  her 
skirts,  hid  her  hands  in  the  folds  of  her  shawl  and  sunk 
her  head  on  her  breast. 

All  round  her  lay  the  night,  menacing  and  terrible. 
Here  and  there  at  the  foot  of  a  bluff  or  in  the  fold  of  a 
valley  the  darkness  seemed  to  have  massed  itself  in  great 
patches  as  if  trying  to  hide  some  awful  tragedy.  She 


342  MAUREEN 

fixed  a  pair  of  frightened  eyes  on  the  near  distance,  where 
objects  the  most  commonplace  took  on  strange  shapes. 
Maureen  crossed  herself;  then  she  prayed. 

But  her  prayers  gave  her  no  solace.  A  simple  "Hail 
Mary"  seemed  no  protection  against  the  darkness  that 
enveloped  her.  All  about  her  were  the  phantoms  of  night 
and  the  moor.  She  opened  her  eyes,  ceased  her  prayers, 
and  looked  round.  Near  her  a  stunted  shrub  waved  in  the 
air,  oscillating  backwards  and  forwards  as  if  trying  to 
clutch  something  which  evaded  its  grasp.  Further  away 
where  the  shadows  bulked  together  as  if  in  confer- 
ence a  black  object  that  looked  like  a  coffin  lay  on  the 
ground. 

Something  creaked  near  at  hand  as  if  a  step  had  trod 
on  the  frosty  heather;  a  spark  rose  from  the  chimney  of 
the  cabin  and  died  away  in  mid  air.  From  somewhere 
on  the  left,  in  the  dip  of  Dungarrow,  a  dog  howled  in  the 
darkness,  and  up  on  the  hills  a  stray  sheep  bleated  through 
the  night  air.  Near  at  hand  the  darkness  seemed  to  rise 
upwards  in  long  streaks  and  take  on  outlines.  These 
wraiths  twisted  and  turned ;  their  silent  profiles  advanced 
towards  the  girl,  only  to  fade  away  as  they  neared  her. 
These  were  succeeded  by  others,  phantoms  fierce  and  vague 
that  slowly  changed  their  location  in  space,  faded  away, 
reformed,  substance  without  form,  inconceivably  outlined. 

And  all  the  time  there  was  no  sound  on  the  road  that 
ran  to  Binbawn.  Cathal  Cassidy  's  cart  had  not  yet  rtached 
Cleena  Brae.  \ 

VI 

On  leaving  Maureen  O'Malley,  Columb  Ruagh  walked 
some  two  furlongs  across  the  braes.  Then  he  stood  for  a 
moment  and  listened,  his  hand  over  his  ear.  Not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard  save  that  which  is  always  with  the  night 
on  the  moor,  the  rustling  of  wild  animals,  the  soft  scurry 
of  a  rabbit,  the  sleepy  flutter  of  wings  as  a  moorfowl 
changed  its  position  in  the  heather.  Columb  sat  down, 
drew  a  match  from  his  pocket,  rubbed  it  along  his  trousers 


POTHEEN  343 

and  lit  his  pipe.  Away  from  him,  towards  the  hills  that 
rose  higher,  was  a  little  gully  steeped  in  shadow.  In  this 
something  moved  and  came  towards  the  sitting  man.  C»- 
lumb,  seeing  it  coming,  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
whistled  softly  through  his  teeth.  The  shadow  came  to  a 
halt  and  whistled  in  reply. 

"That  yerself,  Micky?"  Columb  called  in  a  sharp  whis- 
per. 

"It's  me,"  was  the  answer. 

"Come  on  then,  and  don't  stand  there,  ye  gaby!"  Co- 
lumb called,  still  in  the  same  sharp  whisper,  but  his  voice 
was  charged  with  impatience. 

The  figure  came  nearer.  It  was  the  barefooted  youth, 
legs  to  the  neck,  who  had  been  despatched  on  the  errand 
two  hours  earlier.  He  stood  looking  at  the  man  and  rubbed 
his  chin  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Sit  down,  ye  rip,  ye!"  said  Columb.  "Glory  be!  but 
ye 're  a  gawny  standin'  like  that!  Sit  down!" 

The  youngster  sat  down,  keeping  as  far  away  as  pos- 
sible from  Columb. 

"Come  anear  me,"  said  the  man.  "I  can't  speak  to  ye 
and  ye  as  far  away  as  that.  Everybody  about,  and  there 's 
more  than  one  on  the  scringe,  will  hear  me  if  I've  to  shout 
to  ye." 

The  boy  edged  a  little  nearer  but  still  stayed  beyond 
reach  of  Columb 's  arm. 

"  It 's  nearer  than  that  I  want  ye, ' '  said  the  man  angrily. 
"Am  I  to  be  payin'  ye  wages  and  ye  doin'  whatever  ye 
like?  Closer  yet,  ye  divil's  bastard." 

As  Columb  spoke  he  reached  out,  caught  Micky  by  the 
ear  and  dragged  him  close  to  his  side. 

"Now  tell  me  all,"  he  hissed,  bending  over  the  trem- 
bling boy.  "Where's  the  keg?  Dropped  it  down  and 
lost  it  I'll  warrant." 

"It's  not  there  where  ye  said  that  it  was,"  Micky  fal- 
tered. "It  wasn't  there,  and  it  was  nowhere  else  either.  I 
scringed  the  knowes  and  all  over  the  brae  face  at  the  foot 
iv  Binbawn,  but  notkm '  at  all  was  to  be  seen. ' ' 

"God  preserve  me  from  ever  havin'  a  plaisham  like  yer- 


344  MAUREEN 

self  again!"  said  Columb  angrily.  "The  directions  was 
aisy  and  simple.  A  wain  iv  two  wouldn't  go  astray  on  the 
wee  job  that  I  set  ye  out  to  do.  That's  what  comes  iv 
havin'  a  workhouse  brat  to  do  the  work.  .  .  .  And  maybe 
it  was  the  polis  that  ye  met  as  well  and  told  them  every- 
thing." 

"Not  a  hilt  or  hair  iv  any  polisman  did  I  see  at  all,"  said 
Micky,  squirming  as  Columb  tightened  his  hold  on  the 
imprisoned  ear.  "Not  a  hilt  or  hair  iv  any  one  like  that." 

"What  did  ye  see  then?    Was  it  ghosts?" 

"Didn't  see  any  ghosts,  neither,"  said  Micky.  "I  was 
runnin'  too  quick  to  see  anything." 

"That's  the  reason  then  that  ye  didn't  put  yer  eyes  on 
the  wee  cask  at  the  foot  iv  Binbawn,"  said  Columb  in  a 
harsh  voice,  twisting  the  poor  creature's  ear  in  a  vigorous 
squeeze. 

1 '  Let  me  go,  Columb  Ruagh ! ' '  Micky  yelled.  "  It 's  pull- 
in  '  the  ear  off  iv  me  that  ye  are ! ' ' 

Columb  loosened  his  grip,  started  to  his  feet  and  looked 
round  while  the  youngster  bent  himself  to  the  ground 
both  hands  on  the  sore  ear  and  began  sobbing. 

"Now  it's  not  for  the  likes  iv  you  to  begin  blabberin' 
like  that,  gasair,"  said  the  man  in  a  vindictive  voice,  going 
down  on  one  knee  and  bending  over  the  shuddering  crea- 
ture. ' '  Ye  're  a  big  man  and  ye  should  try  and  carry  yer- 
self  like  a  man." 

"Ye  almost  pulled  the  ear  off  iv  me,"  howled  the  boy. 
"I  couldn't  see  the  cask  at  all  and  I  looked  round  me 
everywhere  in  the  dark.  And  it's  as  black  as  soot  there 
with  not  a  soul  in  sight." 

"Then  ye  didn't  see  anybody  at  all?"  asked  Columb  in  a 
startled  voice. 

"Nobody  at  the  foot  iv  Binbawn,"  said  the  youngster, 
catching  his  breath  at  every  word.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
might  shriek  at  any  moment. 

"Now  go  aisy,"  said  Columb,  again  looking  round  and 
putting  his  hand  over  his  ear.  "Tell  me  everything  and 
go  aisy.  There's  a  white  shillin'  for  ye  if  ye  go  aisy  and 
tell  me  everything." 


POTHEEN  345 

Columb  jingled  a  number  of  loose  coins  in  his  trousers 
pocket  as  he  spoke. 

"It  was  runnin'  all  the  time  that  I  was  till  I  came  to 
Binbawn,"  said  the  youngster.  "Then  I  had  a  look  round, 
but  sorra  a  sight  could  I  get  at  all  iv  the  wee  keg.  There 
was  nothin'  there,  only  three  sheep  and  them  gruntin'  to 
themselves  under  the  shelter  iv  a  hobeen.  Made  me  afeeard 
at  first  when  I  didn't  see  them  and  them  gruntin'  to  them- 
selves. I  said  me  prayers  and  went  round  the  hobeen  and 
then  I  saw  the  sheep,  two  wethers  and  one  ewe,  and  them 
belongin'  to  Liam  Logan  iv  Meenaroodagh.  It's  lost  that 
they  were,  and  them  runnin'  about  the  mountains  a  month 
come  the  morrow  night.  It's  from  the  fair  iv  Kineeragh 
that  Liam  was  drivin'  them  when  he  lost  them,  and  him 
tight.  And  they've  ribbigs  on  their  backs  and  thonags 
and  branded  on  the  horn.  And  when — " 

"The  curses  iv  hell  on  them  sheep,"  said  Columb  im- 
patiently. "What  did  ye  do  then?" 

"I  was  goin'  round  lookin'  for  the  keg  when  I  hears  the 
noise  iv  a  cart  on  the  road  from  Kineeragh,  and  then  I 
thought  iv  the  Bridge  iv  Cleena  and  it  down  and  broke," 
said  Micky.  "And  down  the  brae  I  scooted  as  fast  as  I 
could  leg  it.  It's  out  on  the  road  I  went,  when  I  thought 
iv  what  I  was  tould  about  not  lettin'  anywan  know  who  I 
was  and  what  was  takin'  me  out  in  the  dead  iv  night  to 
the  fut  iv  Binbawn  with  not  a  soul  at  all  near  by.  I  got 
to  the  road,  then  I  thought  about  the  bridge  fallin'  and 
says  I  to  meself,  'How  am  I  to  tell  a  man  that  the  bridge 
is  down  and  not  tell  him  how  I  know  it,  and  as  well  not 
tell  him  who  told  me  iv  it  and  not  let  him  know  who  I 
was.'  'Twas  a  puzzle  I'm  tellin'  ye,  Columb  Ruagh.  I 
thought  and  thought  and  there  the  cart  comin'  rumblin' 
along  and  gettin '  near  by  every  minit.  And  it  was  f eeard 
that  I  was,  and  me  puzzlin'  in  me  head  what  it  was  that 
I  was  to  say  to  him  that  was  drivin'  the  cart." 

"Come  on  and  spit  it  out,  ye  rip,"  said  Columb  in  a 
threatening  voice.  "What  was  in  yer  mind  at  the  time  is 
no  consarn  iv  any  one.  What  did  ye  do  and  what  did  ye 
say?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 


346  MAUREEN 

"The  cart  came  anear  me,  and  I  could  see  him  that  was 
drivin',  sittin'  in  front  with  a  bit  iv  a  bag  round  his  head 
because  iv  the  cowld  and  the  air  from  the  hills,"  Micky 
continued.  "And  he  had  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his 
whip  was  lyin'  across  the  front  board  and  him  givin'  a  bit 
iv  a  lilt  to  keep  himself  company.  All  at  once  he  saw  me 
standin'  on  the  brough  iv  the  road  and  says  he,  'Who  are 
ye,  at  all?' 

"I  knew  him  by  his  talk;  Cathal  Cassidy  from  down 
the  country  in  the  townland  iv  Meenaroodagh.  It's  more 
than  many's  the  time  I  saw  him  sellin'  sheep  at  the  fair 
iv  Stranarachary. " 

"Not  much  stock  that  comes  off  of  his  holdin',"  mut- 
tered Columb.  "Go'n  with  what  ye 're  sayin'." 

"  'It's  Condy  Paddy  Og  iv  Dooran  that  I  am,'  I  said, 
letting  on  to  him  that  that  was  me  name,  for  Cathal  Cas- 
sidy doesn't  know  me  be  sight,  not  in  the  black  night 
anyway ! 

"  'Well,'  says  he,  'it's  a  funny  place,  this,  to  find  ye  at 
this  hour  iv  the  night.  Where  would  ye  be  goin'?' 

"  'Home,'  says  myself.  'I  was  at  the  Doon  Well. 
'Twas  with  me  mother  that  I  was,  and  she  was  comin '  home 
on  a  car  and  me  sittin'  on  the  dickie.  'Twas  Hudy  Nelis's 
car,  and  me  mother  was  taken  bad  and  got  a  car  to  drive 
her  home.  We  just  came  as  far  as  Cleena  Bridge  when 
we  saw  that  the  bridge  had  fell  down  and  the  car  couldn't 
get  across.  Then  it  was  up  to  us  to  do  somethin',  and  the 
driver  says  to  me,  says  he,  'Ye  long-legged  plaisham,  ye 
can  foot  it,  and  get  home  and  tell  them  that  the  bridge  is 
down  and  yer  mother  who's  not  able  to  walk  like  yerself 
can  come  back  with  me  as  far  as  the  house  iv  Neddy  Condy 
out  at  the  foot  iv  Aughla  and  stay  there  for  the  night. 
Then  on  the  morra  she  can  make  home  be  herself  and  maybe 
get  a  lift  on  the  carts  that  bees  goin'  to  Kineeragh,  or 
maybe  the  mail-car.  So  it's  on  me  way  home  that  I  am 
now,'  I  says. 

"  'And  the  Bridge  is  down?'  says  Cathal  Cassidy. 
'Tis  then,'  I  told  him. 

"  'Well,'  says  he,  'it's  a  lucky  job  meetin*  yerself  and 


POTHEEN  347 

savin'  six  miles  iv  the  journey,  three  there  and  three  back 
to  here.    When  had  ye  somethin '  to  ate  last  ? '  he  asked  me. 
"  'Nothin'  crossed  me  mouth  since  I  left  the  Doon  Well,' 
says  I. 

"  'Then  get  this  into  ye/  he  says,  and  from  the  cart  he 
got  out  a  big  slice  iv  bread  and  butther  and  gives  it  to  me. 
Currant  bread  it  was,  too.  'And  this,'  says  he,  and  puttin' 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  he  gives  me  a  white  shillin'.'  ' 

As  he  said  this  Micky  pulled  the  shilling  from  his  pocket 
and  held  it  up  between  finger  and  thumb.  Columb  reached 
out  quietly,  caught  the  boy's  wrist,  took  the  shilling  and 
put  it  in  his  own  pocket. 

"  'Twas  given  to  me,"  Micky  protested.  "Cathal  Gas- 
sidy  gave  it  to  me  for  me  own  self." 

"Iv  course  he  did,"  said  Columb  in  an  angry  whisper. 
"It's  like  some  iv  them  down-the-country  men  to  throw 
their  shillin 's  about  and  maybe  not  havin'  another  penny 
in  the  world.  Full  iv  pride  and  consate  they  are,  the  rips 
iv  the  divil.  But  what  d'ye  want  with  a  shillin'?  I'd 
like  to  know  that.  Ye  get  what  I  give  to  ye  and  no  more, 
mind.  When  I  was  yer  age  I  never  saw  the  color  iv  a 
penny,  let  alone  a  shillin'.  And  the  lies  that  ye  told 
Cathal  Cassidy.  Goigah,  I've  never  thought  it  iv  ye!  And 
what  came  after  ye  got  the  shillin '  ? "  Columb  inquired. 

"Are  ye  goin'  to  keep  it  like  that?"  asked  Micky,  look- 
ing at  the  white  coin  which  his  master  still  held  between 
finger  and  thumb. 

"What  I'm  goin'  to  do,  or  what  I'm  not  goin'  to  do,  is 
no  consarn  iv  yours,  and  mind  that,"  threatened  the  man. 
"What  happened  then?  Spit  it  out  and  don't  spend  the 
whole  night  about  it." 

"Nothin'  much  after  that,"  said  Micky.  "Cathal  Cas- 
sidy turned  his  cart  round  and  told  me  to  get  up  on  it, 
for  he  would  give  me  a  lift  as  far  back  as  Binbawn.  But 
I  said  no,  because  it  was  as  quick  and  quicker  for  me  to  leg 
it  over  the  hills,  and  I  went  out  on  the  hills  and  when  I 
got  out  iv  sight  I  turned  back  and  here  I  am.  .  .  .  Are 
ye  goin'  to  give  me  back  me  white  shillin',  Columb 
Ruagh?" 


348  MAUREEN 

"Well,  if  ye 're  a  good  boy  and  not  be  up  to  any  capers, 
Micky,  I'll  give  ye  the  shillin'  in  the  mornin'  and  maybe 
add  another  one  to  it  as  well,"  said  Columb  in  a  good- 
natured  tone.  "That'll  be  two  white  shillin 's  for  ye, 
Micky  rascal,  great  liar  that  ye  are.  And  if  ye  go  on  like 
that,  getting  shillin 's  for  nothin',  ye '11  soon  have  yer  for- 
tune made  and  have  more  money  in  hand  than  the  rich- 
est man  in  all  Ireland.  Now  how  would  ye  like  that,  Micky, 
me  boy?" 

Micky,  dreading  this  bantering  tone  and  fearing  that 
something  bad  was  about  to  take  place,  shrunk  into  him- 
self. He  felt  that  he  did  not  want  the  two  shillings.  In 
fact,  he  was  ready  to  forsake  any  further  claim  to  the 
shilling  which  Columb  had  taken  from  him  a  minute  ago. 
All  that  the  boy,  whose  long  crooked  legs  were  sore  after 
the  race  across  the  hills,  now  wanted  was  to  get  to  bed.  He 
gave  no  answer  to  the  man's  question. 

"Are  ye  wantin'  the  two  shillin',  or  are  ye  not?"  asked 
Columb  when  he  waited  a  moment  for  the  boy  to  speak. 
There  was  still  no  answer,  for  Micky,  knowing  that  his 
master  would  forget  all  about  the  promise  in  the  morning, 
kept  silent. 

"Well,  if  ye 're  not  goin'  to  trust  me,"  said  the  man, 
guessing  the  thoughts  in  the  boy's  head,  "I'll  give  ye  the 
two  shillin 's  now."  He  rattled  some  coins  in  his  pockets, 
then  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  the  youngster,  and 
two  white  pieces  glittered  on  his  palm  like  a  pair  of  eyes. 

* '  I  don 't  want  them, ' '  said  Micky. 

"Don't  want  them!"  Columb  gasped.  "What's  that 
for?  Take  them!" 

"I'll  not,  then,  till  I  know  what's  to  be  done  after  I 
get  them, ' '  said  the  youth. 

' '  There 's  nothin '  to  be  done  at  all, ' '  said  the  master. 

"Can  I  go  down  to  the  house  below  then  and  get  into 
bed?"  Micky  asked.  "If  that's  what  can  be  done  I'll  take 
the  two  shillin 's  and  scoot  down  the  hill  at  once,  Columb 
Ruagh." 

The  man  with  an  angry  snort  threw  the  money  on  the 


POTHEEN  349 

ground,  near  Micky,  then  got  to  his  feet  and  stepped  back 
a  pace. 

' '  There ! "  he  said.  ' '  There 's  the  money  and  all  for  yer- 
self,  for  when  ye  have  it  I  can't  take  it  from  ye  again. 
Put  it  into  your  pocket  at  once,  at  once,  and  listen  to  what 
I  've  to  say. ' ' 

The  youngster  also  got  to  his  feet  but  did  not  touch  the 
money. 

"Lift  it  up,  now,"  said  Columb  in  a  whisper.  "It's  all 
yer  own,  and  think  iv  what  ye  can  get  for  it  at  the  fair 
iv  Stranarachary  next  comin',  sweets  and  apples  and  gin- 
gerbread. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  sweets  and  apples  and  gingerbread," 
mumbled  Micky.  "I  want  to  get  to  the  house  below  and 
into  bed." 

"And  a  woman  there  and  the  bed  beside  the  fire!"  said 
Columb  in  a  shocked  tone.  "Ye  can't  go  into  bed  with  a 
woman  there,  and  ye  such  a  big  man.  Can  ye  now?" 

' '  Well,  I  '11  sleep  be  the  fire  with  my  clothes  on. ' ' 

"That  ye  won't  this  night,"  said  Columb.  "So  it 
doesn't  matter  whether  ye  take  the  two  shillin's  or  not! 
"What  I  want  ye  to  do  is  this  and  nothin'  else  till  mornin'. 
Get  up  there  to  Garry  Ruddagh  and  inside  the  cave  with 
ye  where  there's  a  snug  fire  on  in  undher  the  still  and 
keep  yer  eye  on  it  and  light  it  up  if  it's  goin'  out.  Just 
make  it  up  once  and  put  the  biggest  bucket  in  the  place 
under  the  worm,  and  then  ye  can  lie  down  and  get  to  sleep 
and  waken  up  whenever  ye  like.  And  take  the  two  shill- 
in's with  ye  and  mind  the  grand  day  that  ye '11  have  when 
the  next  fair  comes  round  in  the  town  below." 

"And  ye  yerself's  comin'  with  me,  Columb  Ruagh, 
aren't  ye?"  whimpered  the  boy. 

"I  would  if  I  could,"  said  Columb.  "But  what  with 
one  thing  and  another  I  can't  go  up  there  for  a  while  yet. 
Ye  just  go  and  I'll  come  up  as  soon  as  I  can.  Maybe  I'll 
be  up  afore  ye,  too,  for  I  can  climb  up  the  rocks  like  a 
two-year-old. ' ' 

1 '  But  the  cave  is  that  lonesome  that  if  I  go  up  there  and 


350  MAUREEN 

sit  down  all  on  me  lone  I'd  be  stone  dead  in  the  morn," 
said  the  boy,  a  shudder  shaking  his  frame.  "It's  that 
black,  Colunib  Ruagh,  that  ye  wouldn't  know  what's  to 
come  out  iv  the  corners  and  get  hold  iv  ye  in  it.  There 
are  eyes  that  look  out  on  ye  and  noises  like  wild  beasts  in 
the  black  holes. ' ' 

"But  I  go  up  there  and  work  all  night  on  my  own,  and 
nothin'  ever  gets  hold  iv  me,"  said  Columb. 

"That's  because  ye 're  so  big  and  afeeard  iv  nothin  V' 
Micky  sobbed.  "But  they'd  put  me  in  their  pockets  and 
take  me  away." 

"Who'd  take  ye  away?" 

"The  ghosts." 

' '  But  ye  've  often  been  up  there  with  me  and  ye  've  nerer 
seen  anything  more  ugly  than  yerself,"  said  the  man. 
* '  Have  ye  now  ? ' ' 

' '  I  could  see  and  hear  them, ' '  said  the  youngster.  ' '  Eyes 
lookin'  in  out  iv  the  blackness  and  sounds  iv  things  mov- 
ing and  steps  in  the  corners  and  now  and  again  grunts  and 
coughs  and  hiccups  the  same  as  if  one  was  gettin'  choked 
dead.  It's  a  wild  place  up  in  the  cave  in  the  day,  let  alone 
in  the  black  iv  night." 

"Oh,  ye 're  a  fool,  ye  damned  plaisham!"  said  Columb 
Ruagh,  irritably  making  a  step  towards  the  boy.  The 
youngster  ran  off  a  couple  of  paces  then  stopped. 

' '  Off  with  ye ! "  roared  Columb,  a  wild  rage  overmaster- 
ing him.  * '  Up  to  Garry  Ruddagh  and  stay  there  till  morn- 
ing. Don't  let  me  see  ye  down  here  till  then,  mind  ye. 
If  I  do  1 11  skin  ye  alive.  Off  with  ye !  Scoot ! ' ' 

He  ran  at  the  youngster,  who  disappeared  into  the  dark- 
ness sobbing.  Columb  stopped  and  listened  to  the  sobs  as 
they  gradually  became  fainter  and  fainter.  From  the 
sounds  that  reached  his  ears  he  could  judge  that  Micky 
was  taking  to  the  hills.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  out  of 
sight,  then  out  of  hearing. 

Columb  Ruagh  went  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
Suddenly  he  saw  the  two  shillings  on  the  ground.  Bend- 
ing down,  he  lifted  them  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 
Then,  buttoning  his  coat,  he  ran  down  the  hill  towards  the 


POTHEEN  351 

house  below.  What  he  was  going  to  do  when  he  got  to  the 
house  he  did  not  know.  He  had  no  idea  in  his  mind,  no 
plan.  Why  had  he  sent  the  boy,  Micky,  to  the  cave?  He 
was  not  certain  now,  but  a  moment  ago  he  had  some  hazy 
idea  that  it  would  be  wise  to  get  the  youngster  out  of  the 
way.  But  why  did  he  want  the  youngster  out  of  the  way  ? 
He  could  not  say. 

He  stopped  and  looked  around.  The  hill  was  deserted. 
Not  a  sound  save  that  of  a  brook  sobbing  wearily  by  his 
side  as  it  made  its  way  down  to  the  hollows,  and  the  lone 
sough  of  the  winds  as  they  dreed  over  the  heather,  moaning 
as  if  tired.  Below  him  he  could  see  the  house,  looking 
strangely  white  in  the  night.  As  he  gazed  at  it  he  reflected 
that  a  whitewash-brush  had  not  touched  it  for  close  on 
twenty  years,  not  since  it  came  into  his  possession  any- 
way. Never  before  had  it  appeared  so  white  to  the  man. 
And  somewhere  near  it  Maureen  O'Malley  was  sitting  on 
the  bundle  of  hay  waiting  for  Cathal  Cassidy. 

As  he  looked  at  the  house  and  thought  of  the  girl  he 
grew  calm  and  regained  possession  of  his  clearness  of  mind. 
He  had  chased  the  boy  Micky  away  because  he  did  not 
want  him  in  his  company  when  he  spoke  to  Maureen  O  'Mai- 
ley  again.  He  wanted  the  girl  to  himself,  the  proud,  con- 
ceited Maureen !  And  what  she  had  to  be  proud  about  he 
could  not  realize.  She  should  be  gratified  that  Columb 
Keeran,  a  man  like  him,  with  money  and  land,  spoke  to 
her. 

Meanwhile  as  he  stood  there  he  heard  a  strange  and 
singular  sound  as  if  somebody  was  sobbing  at  the  house 
below.  He  heard  it  distinctly,  though  feebly,  as  if  some 
one  overcome  with  grief  was  doing  the  utmost  to  stifle  an 
emotion.  Was  it  Maureen?  The  girl,  no  doubt;  fright- 
ened as  she  thought  of  the  ghost  of  murdered  Myles  Andy 
Og.  Probably  she  even  saw  the  ghost,  her  mind  giving  way 
to  terror  in  the  darkness. 

As  he  thought  of  this  he  experienced  a  strange  and  un- 
healthy feeling  of  hatred  towards  the  girl.  She  was  fright- 
ened, but  what  else  did  she  deserve!  She  was  so  proud 
and  conceited  that  it  would  do  her  a  world  of  good  if  she 


352  MAUREEN 

experienced  terror  and  fright.  It  would  bring  her  to  her 
senses  and  show  her  that  she  could  not  always  ride  the 
high  horse.  How  fear  would  bring  this  about  Columb  did 
not  know,  but  he  felt  that  it  would  and  took  pleasure  in 
the  thought. 

He  sank  slowly  to  the  ground,  resting  his  head  in  a  bed 
of  wild  iris.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at  one  of  the  sword- 
shaped  leaves,  then  pulled  it  and  placed  it  between  his 
thumbs.  Bending  down  he  rested  his  lips  on  the  thumb 
knuckles  and  blew  against  the  sharp  edge  of  the  leaf.  Up 
from  the  darkness  of  the  moor  a  strange  sound  rose.  It 
mingled  with  the  drear  obscurity,  at  first  low  and  tremu- 
lous like  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul,  then  deeper  in  tone  and 
louder  it  rose  to  the  sky.  Finally  it  faltered  and  died  away 
like  a  Hope  that  is  lost  forever.  The  lonely  moor  had 
found  a  voice  in  the  night. 

"That'll  put  the  fear  into  her,"  said  Columb  with  a 
hoarse  laugh.  "When  I  go  to  her  now,  she'll  be  more  than 
glad  to  see  me." 

He  raised  himself  up  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  looked 
at  the  house.  Something  dark,  a  shade  against  the  shadow 
of  the  wall,  was  moving  from  one  side  to  another,  now 
stooping  and  bending  down,  then  rising  and  resuming  its 
journey.  Against  the  wall  this  object  appeared  limp  as  a 
cloth  hanging  on  a  peg.  When  this  wraith  came  to  one 
end  of  the  wall  it  stopped,  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and 
then  retraced  its  steps. 

As  he  saw,  Columb  felt  the  ground  at  his  knees,  picked 
up  a  stone,  and  with  a  mighty  sweep  sent  it  whirling 
down  the  brae,  his  eyes  following  the  line  which  it  trav- 
eled. He  could  see  it  strike  sparks  from  the  stones  which 
it  encountered  on  the  first  part  of  its  journey,  then  he 
could  hear  its  hard  clatter  as  it  careered  over  the  hillocks 
further  down.  Finally  there  was  a  soft  splosh  as  it  fin- 
ished its  journey  by  dropping  into  a  pool  at  the  bottom 
of  the  slope. 

"There's  enough  for  one  night,  anyway,"  said  Columb 
in  a  whisper.  "I'll  now  get  round  and  come  up  on  the 
house  from  in  undher." 


POTHEEN  353 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  arrived  at  the  house,  to  find 
Maureen  standing  at  the  door  waiting  for  him.  So  it 
seemed  to  Columb  Ruagh,  though  down  in  the  deep  of  his 
mind  the  thought  that  it  was  not  for  him  but  for  Cathal 
Cassidy  that  she  waited  gnawed  like  a  worm.  But  why 
should  he  think  of  this  now  ?  Here  were  the  two  all  alone. 
The  girl  was  at  his  mercy,  and  this  thought  gave  the  man 
a  feeling  of  strength  and  possession.  He  had  known  a 
feeling  almost  similar,  but  not  so  strong  and  maddening, 
when  he  held  the  "fingers"  as  final  card  in  a  game  of 
"Twenty-five."  There  was  a  touch  of  malicious  exulta- 
tion in  his  heart  as  he  gazed  at  the  girl,  clinging  to  the 
latch  of  the  door  as  if  trying  to  save  herself  from  falling. 
Perhaps  she  was  asleep.  He  came  up  close  to  her  and 
touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

She  roused  herself  with  a  start  and  stared  at  the  man, 
her  eyes  wide  open  and  full  of  fright. 

vn 

' '  It 's  me, ' '  he  said.    "  It 's  Columb.    Were  ye  sleepin '  ? " 

"Columb  Ruagh!"  she  cried.  "Oh!  I'm  so  glad  that 
ye've  come.  I  was  so  feeard  with  the  lights  risin'  from 
the  hills  and  the  cryin'  and  squealin'  that  was  in  it,  up 
above.  Oh,  I'm  glad  that  ye've  come  back  here,  Columb 
Ruagh!" 

As  she  spoke  she  began  to  sob  bitterly,  and  catching  the 
hands  of  the  old  man  raised  them  to  her  lips.  In  her  isola- 
tion and  terror  she  had  found  something  sturdy  to  cling 
to,  something  strong,  a  protection  against  the  terrors  of 
the  night. 

"I  was  so  feeard,  Columb  Ruagh,"  she  went  on,  kissing 
his  fingers  and  speaking  in  phrases  that  were  wildly  in- 
coherent. "I  was  so  afeeard,  and  the  dead  man  out  and 
me  lookin'  at  him  and  goin'  out  iv  my  mind.  And  I 
wanted  ye  to  come  back,  and  I  walked  round  the  house 
with  me  back  to  it  so  that  nothin'  would  catch  me  from 
behind.  And  I  wanted  to  run  away,  and  then  I  thought 
that  they'd  be  after  me  down  the  road  and  I  couldn't  move 


354  MAUREEN 

neither  hand  or  foot.  Oh,  Columb  Ruagh !  I  'm  glad  that 
ye 're  back  with  me  again.  .  .  .  Don't  leave  me  here  to 
meself  alone. ' ' 

The  madness  seemed  to  seize  the  man.  Gripping  the  girl 
round  the  waist  he  drew  her  in  to  him.  She  did  not  resist. 
Looking  up  at  him  with  wild  sad  eyes,  she  surrendered 
mutely,  snuggling  close  to  his  breast  and  catching  him 
with  both  arms,  clinging  to  him  as  an  ivy  to  a  gnarled  oak. 
With  a  wild  sense  of  mastery  and  possession  he  embraced 
the  light,  sinuous  body,  tightening  his  arms  round  it  as  if 
it  would  suddenly  slip  from  his  grasp  and  disappear  into 
the  breezes  of  the  moor. 

"You  were  frightened,  Maureen,  were  ye?"  he  articu- 
lated, in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Frightened  and  feeard  were 
ye,  Maureen!  But  ye 're  safe  now,  aren't  ye?  That's 
right,  ye  wee  girl,  ye !  That 's  right !  Now  ye  don 't  want 
away,  d  'ye,  away  from  Columb  Ruagh !  He  '11  not  let  any 
one  do  ye  any  harm  at  all!  Let  them  try  it  and  they'll 
see !  Wantin '  away,  are  ye  ?  Then  off  with  ye ! " 

The  girl  pulled  herself  from  Columb 's  arm,  reeled  back 
to  the  door  and  gripped  the  latch  to  save  herself  from 
falling.  For  a  moment  she  clung  to  it,  her  bosom  shaking 
with  sobs.  On  the  ground  at  her  feet  lay  her  shawl  which 
had  fallen  off  when  Columb  seized  her,  but  as  if  to  replace 
it  her  tresses  had  fallen  down  and  now  covered  her  white 
neck  and  heaving  shoulders. 

"What  is  it  that's  wrong  with  ye?"  asked  the  man, 
again  reaching  out  his  hand  and  touching  her  elbow.  The 
girl  looked  up  at  him  with  a  puzzled  stare. 

"Is  it  yerself  that's  in  it,  Columb?"  she  inquired  in  a 
faltering  voice. 

"Iv  coorse  it  is,  Maureen,"  he  replied.  "Ye  know  me, 
don't  ye?" 

"I  know  ye,  Columb,"  she  replied.  "But  I'm  so  feeard. 
'Twas  the  ghosts  first  and  the  bad  things  on  the  hills. 
Then  I  had  a  drame,  and  it  means  something  bad.  Oh, 
an  awful  drame,  Columb!  .  .  .  And  I'm  so  cold!" 

"Well,  then,  come  in  here  and  sit  down  and  warm  yer- 
self be  the  fire,"  said  the  man.  "It's  maybe  out,  but  I'll 


POTHEEN  355 

soon  get  the  coals  from  the  greeshaugh  and  light  it  up 
again ! ' ' 

As  he  spoke  he  took  a  key  from  his  pocket,  shoved  it  in 
the  lock  and  opened  the  door.  Then  he  lifted  the  shawl 
from  the  ground  and  handed  it  to  Maureen. 

"Put  it  round  yer  shoulders,"  he  said,  his  voice  almost 
paternal.  "And  in  now  with  ye  to  the  house  and  have  a 
warm  be  the  blaze." 

He  took  her  arm,  escorted  her  in  and  placed  her  on  the 
chair  by  the  fire.  A  few  sparks  still  glowed  in  the  ashes 
like  wicked  red  eyes  plotting  mischief  in  the  darkness. 
The  man  groped  in  the  smother  for  live  embers,  heaped 
them  in  a  little  pile  in  the  center  of  the  hearth,  ground  a 
dry  turf  between  his  fingers  and  placed  the  mold  on  the 
heap.  In  a  few  minutes  this  flared  up;  turf  were  piled 
on  the  flame,  and  presently  a  hearty  fire  was  burning  mer- 
rily. 

"That'll  be  a  fire  that'll  warm  the  heart  in  ye  in  next 
to  no  time,"  said  the  man  in  a  voice  of  exultation  as  he 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Maureen.  The  girl  sat  on  the  chair,  her 
shawl  wrapped  tightly  round  her  throat  and  shivering  as 
if  half  frozen  with  cold.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  questioningly 
on  Columb  Ruagh  as  if  some  disturbing  but  indistinct  idea 
concerning  him  engrossed  her  mind. 

"Ye '11  be  warm  in  a  minit;  just  wait  till  ye  see  the  fire 
runnin'  up  against  the  soot  and  the  sparks  jumpin'  out  on 
to  yer  wee  boots, ' '  said  Columb,  who  was  on  his  feet  again, 
a  look  of  great  excitement  in  his  eyes.  Putting  his  hand 
in  his  pocket,  he  felt  for  something,  brought  his  hand  out 
empty,  buttoned  his  coat,  sat  down,  got  up  again,  sorted 
the  turf  on  the  fire,  spat  in  the  flames,  unbuttoned  his 
coat,  and  all  the  time  his  eyes  were  on  Maureen,  taking 
stock  of  her  every  movement,  every  expression  on  her  face. 

"Was  it  a  dream  that  I  had,  Columb  Ruagh?"  she  sud- 
denly asked. 

"  'Twas,  iv  coorse,"  said  the  man,  sitting  down  on  a 
heap  of  bags  which  stood  near  the  fire  and  pulling  his 
trousers  up  at  the  knees.  ' '  'Twas  iv  coorse  a  dream,  with 
the  feear  iv  the  hills  in  yer  head  and  ye  hangin'  on  be  the 


356  MAUREEN 

latch.  'Twas  a  funny  way  to  get  the  sleep  on  ye,  Mau- 
reen." 

"I  didn't  want  to  sleep,"  said  the  girl.  "I  was  in  a 
maze,  and  I  closed  me  eyes,  and  all  at  once  I  began  to 
dream.  ...  A  terrible  dream,  too." 

"Don't  trouble  about  yer  dream  at  all,"  said  Columb 
irritably.  "It's  notions  that  got  into  yer  head,  that's  what 
it  was.  But  what  am  I  thinkin'  iv,  Maureen  Malley,  hav- 
in'  ye  sittin'  here  in  me  home  with  the  light  not  on.  I 
must  light  the  lamp." 

The  paraffin  lamp  hung  by  a  string  from  the  roof-beam. 
Catching  it  in  his  hand,  he  turned  up  the  wick  and  lit  it. 
A  faint  gleam  lit  the  near  vicinity,  but  failed  to  pierce 
outwards  towards  the  corners  of  the  room  where  the 
shadows  lurked  in  ambush  behind  every  projection  of  the 
wall,  every  nook  and  corner. 

"It's  not  takin'  kindly  to  it,"  said  Columb,  and  turned 
the  wick  higher  up  in  its  carriage.  "But  that's  better, 
that's  better,"  he  muttered  as  the  flame  took  full  purchase 
of  the  wick  and  flared  with  a  brilliant  radiance,  chasing 
away  the  massed  battalions  of  shadows  that  lurked  in  the 
corners  of  the  room.  "Now,  Maureen  Malley,  that's  better ! 
Draw  in  be  the  fire  and  have  a  warm  to  yer  shins." 

The  girl  looked  uneasily  at  Columb,  and  her  face  showed 
traces  of  an  uneasy  inward  agitation.  She  shivered  and 
moved  her  chair  with  submissive  haste  towards  the  fire. 

"Just  sit  in  and  ye '11  warm  yerself  in  less  than  no  time," 
said  Columb.  "And  have  a  drink  iv  potheen,  the  best  iv 
the  makin'.  There's  some  here  that  has  been  in  the  house 
more  years  than  I  can  tell." 

Maureen  shook  her  head. 

"More  years  than  I  can  tell,"  said  Columb,  waxing  en- 
thusiastic over  the  age  of  the  liquor.  "Never  was  the  like 
iv  it  at  weddin'  or  funeral  in  the  barony  for  twenty  years 
gone.  'Twas  buried  in  a  keg  in  a  bog-hole  and  kept  on 
improvin'  with  the  years,  and  now  there's  nothin'  like  it 
in  all  Ireland.  And  that's  sayin'  somethin'." 

He  made  his  way  to  the  bed  in  the  corner,  went  down 


POTHEEN  357 

on  his  knees  and  groped  in  the  darkness.  When  he  got 
to  his  feet  again  he  held  a  jar,  covered  with  dry  moss  from 
bottom  to  neck,  in  his  hands. 

"Ye  can  have  a  drop  from  this,"  said  Columb  in  tones 
of  magnanimous  self-sacrifice.  "And  yer  lips  will  be  the 
only  ones  that  ever  tasted  stuff  that's  so  old  and  so  good." 

Again  without  speaking,  Maureen,  trembling  all  over, 
shook  her  head. 

"It's  the  cold  that  ye '11  be  gettin'  if  ye  don't  put  some 
iv  this  down,"  cried  Columb,  putting  the  jar  on  the  ground 
and  twisting  the  cork  from  the  neck  with  his  hand.  Plac- 
ing a  large  delf  bowl  on  the  floor,  he  poured  some  of  the 
liquor  into  it. 

"Not  so  much  iv  it,  then,  if  ye '11  have  me  to  take  it," 
said  the  girl.  "It  won't  be  any  harm  and  me  so  cold, 
anyway, ' '  she  went  on  in  a  weary  voice.  "  I  do  feel  f eeard, 
and  the  cold's  right  in  me  bones.  That'll  do,  that'll  do!" 

Columb  handed  her  the  potheen.  The  girl  mechanically 
took  the  bowl,  but  her  hand  trembled  so  much  that  the 
liquor  began  to  splash  against  the  side,  and  she  spilt  half 
of  it. 

"Put  it  down,  Maureen,"  said  Columb,  touching  her 
sympathetically  on  the  shoulder.  "Put  it  down.  It's  only 
a  wee  drop.  That's  right!  That's  right!  Now  are  ye 
warmed  up?" 

He  took  the  bowl  from  her  hand,  placed  it  on  the  floor 
and  poured  some  more  potheen  into  it.  Raising  it  up,  he 
looked  at  it  with  the  air  of  a  judge,  sniffed  it. 

"Yer  health,  Maureen  Malley,"  he  said  and  drank. 
Then  in  ecstasy  he  leant  back  on  his  seat  and  closed  both 
eyes  with  a  satisfied  air.  When  he  opened  them  again  his 
glance  rested  on  Maureen. 

The  girl  was  now  apparently  asleep,  one  little  red  hand 
resting  on  the  other,  her  shawl  thrust  back  from  her  shoul- 
ders, her  throat  gleaming  white  against  the  background  of 
her  hair.  Columb,  as  he  watched,  could  see  her  bosom  rise 
and  fall,  the  flush  of  color  redden  her  cheeks  and  die  away 
again.  As  he  looked  at  her  and  took  in  every  line  of  her 


358  MAUREEN 

form,  the  contour  of  her  cheeks,  the  rounded  fullness  of  her 
breast,  she  moved  her  head  ever  so  slightly.  Her  eye- 
lashes quivered  and  a  smile  showed  on  her  face. 

Columb  Ruagh  got  to  his  feet,  went  down  on  his  knees 
in  front  of  the  girl,  rested  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and 
looked  in  her  face,  his  lips  close  to  hers.  How  smooth 
and  pink  her  cheeks,  how  small  her  hands,  how  soft  her 
breath !  Even  as  he  looked  at  her  he  raised  his  own  big, 
miry  hands  and  rubbed  his  chin  where  the  beard,  un- 
shaven for  many  days,  stood  out  in  bristles  like  the  teeth 
of  a  currycomb. 

"Are  ye  sleepin',  Maureen?"  he  asked,  and  there  was 
no  answer. 

"Ah!  it's  no  wonder  that  they'll  have  nothin'  to  do 
with  me,  but  wait ! "  he  muttered,  as  he  drew  his  calloused 
fingers  across  his  chin  again.  * '  But  just  wait ! ' ' 

His  head  full  of  conflicting  thoughts,  he  got  to  his  feet 
again,  ransacked  a  bowl  in  the  chimney  brace  and  from 
the  dust  brought  out  a  varied  assortment  of  articles,  a 
fragment  of  glass  which  once  formed  part  of  a  mirror,  a 
cake  of  soap,  last  used  when  he  washed  his  face  for  church 
two  Sundays  before,  a  razor  and  a  tin  can.  Filling  the  tin 
with  water,  he  placed  it  on  the  fire,  took  off  his  coat,  thrust 
his  shirt  sleeves  up  to  the  elbow  and  began  stropping  the 
razor  on  his  forearm. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  took  the  can  of  water  from  the 
fire,  tested  it  with  his  finger,  then  dropped  the  soap  in  it. 
Having  no  brush,  he  lathered  his  face  with  his  hands,  soap- 
ing cheeks  and  jaw,  and  watching  in  the  little  glass  which 
he  had  installed  in  a  niche  of  the  chimney  brace,  the  soap 
foam  thicken  and  overspread  the  razor-ground  of  his  ruvid 
features.  Then  he  shaved,  his  hand  trembling  a  little  as 
he  did  so  and  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  turning  round  to 
the  chair  on  which  Maureen  was  seated. 

Having  finished  with  his  face,  he  smoothed  his  hair  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand  and  smiled  in  the  mirror,  taking  al- 
ternately front  and  three-quarters  views  of  his  face. 

"It  doesn't  matter  about  the  rest  iv  me,"  he  said.  "I've 
the  shoulders  iv  a  man  and  the  suppleness  iv  a  hare,  and 


POTHEEN  359 

I  never  show  it  in  runnin'  away  like  some  iv  them.  Cathal 
Cassidy,  indeed,  the  rip!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
charged  with  passion.  "I'll  show  him!" 

He  lifted  his  wrapper  from  the  ground,  put  it  on,  but 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  buttoning  it  he  recollected  that 
when  he  was  younger  and  as  big  a  fool  as  the  rest  of  them 
down  the  country,  he  used  to  take  part  in  the  games  of 
his  fellows,  jumping,  running  and  tug  of  war.  Once, 
when  engaged  in  the  latter  pastime,  Father  Dan,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  onlookers,  gazed  at  Columb,  who 
stood  ready  for  the  contest,  head  uncovered,  arms  bare 
to  the  elbows,  the  collar  of  his  shirt  opened  and  his  muscled 
breast  bare.  "What  a  splendid-looking  boy,"  said  Father 
Dan.  "He's  like  an  ancient  god!" 

Columb  did  not  know  rightly  what  an  ancient  god  was, 
but  judging  from  the  tone  of  the  priest  that  a  compliment 
was  intended,  he  appeared  at  all  games  for  years  after- 
wards in  the  same  dress.  Now  that  there  was  another 
game  on,  the  game  of  love,  why  not  enter  the  field  in  the 
same  manner?  Columb  took  his  coat  off  again,  thrust 
up  his  sleeves  and  turned  down  the  collar  of  his  red  shirt. 
He  looked  into  the  mirror,  took  stock  of  his  neck  and  the 
blue  jugular  vein  that  stood  out  like  a  rubber  tire,  the  set 
of  his  jaw  and  nose,  front  view  and  profile. 

"It'll  do,  it'll  do,"  he  chuckled.  "There's  life  in  the 
old  dog  yet,  and  with  the  money  behind  ye '11  go  far  to 
get  better." 

Again  he  knelt  on  the  ground  in  front  of  Maureen,  who 
was  sleeping  soundly,  and  put  his  hands  on  her  knees. 
All  at  once  the  girl,  though  asleep,  had  that  indefinable 
impression,  felt  but  not  seen,  of  something  foreign  in  the 
atmosphere,  something  that  threatened  her  safety.  She 
awoke  with  a  start  and  her  eyes,  wide  open,  rested  on  the 
man.  She  stared  at  him  for  a  second,  then  seized  his 
hands  and  thrust  them  away  from  her. 

"What  are  ye  doin',  Columb  Ruagh?"  she  cried.  "Is 
this  the  way  that  ye 're  tryin'  to  thrate  me?" 

"But  I'm  doin'  nothin'  to  ye,  Maureen  Malley,"  said 
the  man,  springing  to  his  feet.  A  look  of  annoyance  and 


360  MAUREEN 

confusion  showed  on  his  face.  "I'm  doin'  nothin'  to  ye. 
I  could  have  done  whatever  I  liked  because  ye  were  asleep, 
but  I  didn't,  Maureen  Malley!  It's  the  potheen  that's 
made  ye  so  bad  and  cross,  Maureen." 

"Maybe  that,"  said  the  girl,  rubbing  her  eyes.  "But 
it  was  yerself  that  gave  it  to  me,  Columb  Euagh.  And 
ye  look  so  funny,  too,  Columb,  with  all  the  hair  off  yer 
face  like  a  young  fellow  at  chapel  on  a  Sunday,  and  them 
goin'  to  their  duties.  But  it's  a  funny  sight  that  ye  are, 
Columb,  and  yer  face  so  red  and  so  funny,  so  very,  very 
funny ! ' ' 

She  lay  back  on  the  chair  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  man,  who  now,  looking 
confused  and  foolish,  stared  at  the  girl,  his  mouth  open  a 
little  and  his  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  hanging  limp  by 
his  sides. 

"What  are  ye  goin'  to  do,  Columb?"  chuckled  the  girl. 
"Is  it  to  kill  a  pig  with  the  way  yer  shirt  is  turned  down 
be  the  neck  and  yer  sleeves  thrust  up  ?  Ye  look  so  funny 
that  one  wouldn't  think  that  it  was  yerself  that  was  in  it 
at  all.  And  the  razor  with  the  soap  on  it.  Was  it  shavin' 
yerself  that  ye  were,  and  the  sleep  on  me  ? ' ' 

As  she  spoke  she  pointed  at  the  razor,  which  was  now 
lying  on  the  bags,  still  open,  with  the  lather  on  the  steel. 
Then  she  burst  into  another  hysterical  fit  of  laughter. 

' '  What  were  ye  shavin '  yerself  for  ? ' '  she  inquired.  ' '  At 
this  hour  iv  the  night  and  no  fair  to  go  to  the  morrow? 
Come,  tell  me  what  were  ye  shavin'  yerself  for?  Tell  me, 
Columb  Ruagh?" 

She  got  to  her  feet,  tried  to  steady  herself,  swayed  and 
fell  on  the  chair  again. 

"It's  the  potheen  that's  got  to  me  head,"  she  laughed. 
"And  it  the  first  time,  too.  It's  bad  that  it  will  bring  me; 
I'm  sure  iv  it.  But,  Columb,"  she  pleaded,  "tell  me 
what  ye  shaved  yerself  for  ?  I  never  saw  ye  look  so  clean 
and  tidy  in  all  me  life." 

The  man  looked  vacantly  at  the  girl  for  a  moment,  rub- 
bing his  eyes,  as  if  he  and  not  Maureen  had  just  awoke 
from  sleep.  Thus  for  a  moment.  Then  he  seemed  to  come 


POTHEEN  3«1 

to  a  decision.    Kneeling  down,  he  caught  both  the  girl's 
hands,  raised  them  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them. 

"Maureen,  my  wee  Maureen,"  he  mumbled,  placing  his 
head  on  her  hands  and  holding  them  so  tightly  that  she 
could  not  pull  them  away.  "I  shaved,  I  tidied  meself, 
because,  Maureen,  I  want  ye!  I  want  ye  to  be  my  wife! 
Maureen,  I've  the  money  and  maybe  I'm  old  as  they  say, 
but  that  and  all  I've  shoulders  as  strong  as  the  best  iv 
them.  I  want  ye,  Maureen.  It's  long  and  many's  a  day 
since  ye  came  into  me  mind,  and  I've  been  savin'  and 
scrapin'  the  money,  puttin'  a  bit  by  one  day  and  a  bit  by 
another  day,  and,  Maureen,  it  was  all  for  yerself.  Ye '11 
be  mine,  won't  ye?  Say  that  ye  will.  Let  me  kiss  ye;  let 
me  hold  ye!  It  doesn't  matter  who  they  are,  I'll  not  let 
them  put  a  hand  on  ye!  I'll  work  me  fingers  to  the  bone 
for  ye.  Maureen,  my  wee  Maureen!  I'll  put  boots  and 
dresses  on  ye  the  best  in  all  Ireland.  And  now,  it's  not 
wantin'  to  get  away  that  ye  are,  Maureen?" 

vm 

The  girl  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  doing  her  best  to 
free  her  hand  from  the  madman.  She  was  now  terribly 
frightened.  Added  to  fear  was  her  weariness.  She  had 
been  out  of  bed  for  some  twenty-four  hours,  had  been 
traveling  most  of  that  time  on  the  rugged  mountainy  roads. 
During  this  time  she  had  eaten  very  little.  She  had  some 
tea,  bread  and  butter  when  she  left  home  in  the  morning, 
a  similar  repast  at  the  Doon  Well,  in  a  peasant  cottage,  and 
since  then  nothing. 

Then,  when  her  vitality  had  reached  its  lowest  ebb,  when 
with  muscles  strained,  nerves  weary,  she  reached  the  Crin- 
nan  cross-roads  and  sought  for  a  moment's  rest  in  Co- 
lumb's  house,  she  was  turned  out  into  the  darkness  and 
cold,  and  left  there  a  prey  to  the  weirdest  fancies  of  her 
susceptible  imagination.  The  sup  of  potheen  taken  almost 
blindly  had  cheered  her  for  a  moment  and  soothed  her 
nerves.  From  this  she  woke  up  to  the  further  infliction 
of  Columb  Euagh's  attentions. 


362  MAUREEN 

"Leave  me  be,  Columb  Ruagh,"  she  pleaded,  still  try- 
ing to  free  her  hand.  But  in  this  she  was  unsuccessful. 
Holding  both  her  hands  in  one  of  his,  he  put  his  arm  round 
her  white,  supple  neck  and  pressed  her  back  into  the  chair, 
every  futile  effort  on  her  part  to  free  herself  seeming  to 
add  fire  and  strength  to  the  man's  passion.  She  sank  into 
the  chair  and  gazed  up  at  him  with  terror-stricken  eyes, 
afraid  to  move  even  a  finger  now  lest  the  slightest  motion 
would  bring  her  to  a  fearsome  and  horrible  end. 

"Now,"  said  the  man,  gripping  both  her  arms  in  a  grip 
of  iron.  "Now,  what  have  ye  to  say?  Ye  don't  want  me, 
don't  ye?  And  amn't  I  as  good  as  the  best  of  them? 
Amn't  I?  Amn't  I?  Amn't  I?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  girl's  eyes  suddenly  closed 
and  a  ghastly  pallor  overspread  her  countenance.  Columb 
Ruagh  was  startled,  then  scared.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
ear  as  if  listening  for  sounds  from  the  outside,  then  he 
bent  down  over  the  girl. 

' '  Maureen  Malley ! "  he  whispered.    ' '  Maureen  Malley ! ' ' 

There  was  no  answer,  not  a  quiver  of  an  eyelid.  Columb 
shuddered. 

' ' God ! "  he  stammered.  " I've  killed  the  girsha !  What 's 
wrong?  "What's  wrong  with  her?  Maureen  Malley.  Wee 
Maureen ! ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  again,  taking  stock  of  her  face  as  she 
lay  there  limp  and  motionless,  her  eyes  closed  and  cheeks 
colorless.  Her  face  had  the  pallor  of  death. 

"But  ye 're  not  dead,  Maureen!"  said  the  man  thickly. 
"It's  only  makin'  fun  iv  me  that  ye  are,  makin'  fun  iv  old 
Columb  that  never  meant  ye  any  harm.  Waken  up! 
Waken  up !  Waken  up ! " 

He  caught  her  arm,  lifted  it  and  felt  the  pulse  with  his 
thumb.  Under  the  skin  he  felt  the  slow  throb  of  blood  in 
motion. 

"That's  right,  girsha,  that's  right,"  he  laughed.  "Just 
a  drop  iv  water  on  yer  face,  and  it  '11  bring  ye  to  yer  senses. 
Tryin'  to  frighten  Columb  were  ye,  ye  rascal?"  he  de- 
manded, shaking  his  fist  in  mock  anger  at  the  girl.  "But 
he  wasn't  to  be  caught  in  that  way.  No  fear!  Ye '11  not 


POTHEEN  363 

catch  Columb  like  that!  There's  more  in  his  head  than 
a  comb  can  take  out.  Just  a  drop  of  water  and  the  job  is 
done,  or  a  drop  iv  potheen!  Potheen's  better!" 

He  poured  a  drop  from  the  jar  into  the  bowl  and  held 
it  to  her  mouth,  spilling  a  portion  of  the  liquid  over  her 
lips.  Maureen  gasped,  then  swallowed.  Her  eyes  opened 
and  she  sat  up. 

"Was  I  sleepin'  again,  Columb  Ruagh?"  she  asked  in 
a  terrified  whisper. 

Columb  seized  both  her  hands  in  his,  raised  one  of  them 
almost  to  his  lips  and  dropped  it  again. 

"It's  the  fear  that  ye've  put  in  me,  Maureen  Malley," 
he  said.  "You  fell  in  a  sort  iv  faint,  and  I  thought  that 
ye  were  dead." 

She  looked  at  him,  then  gazed  round  the  room,  at  the 
fire  first,  then  at  the  lamp  swinging  from  the  roof. 

"I  must  go,  Columb,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  decision, 
drawing  her  hand  away  and  tightening  the  shawl  round 
her  shoulders.  "It  must  be  close  on  the  mornin',  and 
not  a  cart  comin'.  I  shouldn't  have  waited  at  all  here. 
Keepin'  ye  from  yer  sleep  and  frightenin'  them  that's 
waitin '  for  me  down  in  Meenaroodagh. ' ' 

"But  don't  go  and  the  light  iv  day  so  near  now,"  Co- 
lumb entreated  in  a  thick  voice.  ' '  Stay  where  ye  are,  and 
when  it's  light  I'll  leave  ye  at  home.  I  don't  see  what 
ye 're  thinkin'  iv  waitin'  for  that  cart  and  the  man  that's 
drivin'  it,  havin'  no  thought  iv  ye  at  all,  but  up  to  capers 
iv  his  own  and  after  fun  iv  his  own,  for  that's  the  way 
with  the  most  iv  them  fellows  down  the  country.  Spendin' 
what  few  ha'pence  they  have  they  are,  then  it's  talkin'  iv 
marryin'  and  makin'  love  that  they're  to.  But  a  man  like 
me,  Maureen,  that  never  says  anything  about  what  I  have, 
has  more  money  than  them  all  put  together.  Take  the 
whole  pack  iv  them  and  I  could  buy  them  body  and  soul! 
That's  what  Columb  Ruagh  could  do!  That's  what  I 
could  do !  For  look,  Maureen  Malley,  look  and  see  this. ' ' 

As  he  spoke  he  stood  on  the  bags,  and  reaching  up 
grasped  a  pick  which  was  stuck  in  the  roof  under  the  raft- 
ers. With  this  he  began  digging  furiously  at  the  floor, 


364  MAUREEN 

picking  up  the  flags  embedded  in  the  spread  of  dank  earth. 

"Down!"  he  roared.  "Down  yet,  Columb  Ruagh,  and 
show  them!  Down!"  he  gasped,  raising  the  pick  over  his 
head  with  a  mighty  swoop  and  bringing  it  floorward  with 
such  force  that  it  raised  sparks  from  the  stones  and  scat- 
tered clods  of  earth  all  over  the  room,  even  as  far  as  the 
doorway.  "Down  yet!  Into  it,  Columb  Ruagh!"  he 
yelled,  foaming  at  the  mouth  and  putting  all  the  force  of 
his  body  into  the  labor. 

Something  gave  back  a  hollow  sound.  "That's  it,"  he 
grunted,  spitting  on  the  disturbed  pile  which  his  pick  had 
torn  up.  "Now,  Columb  Ruagh  will  let  them  see  what's 
to  be  seen  here  at  the  Crinnan  cross-roads !  Now  ye  '11  let 
them  see,  whoever  they  are !  An  old  dog  for  the  hard  road 
and  a  pup  for  the  level !  That 's  it.  In  inundher  it !  Up 
with  it!  Up  with  it!  That's  the  way,  me  boy!  That's 
the  way!  Let  them  see  what  it  is!  Let  them  see!" 

Maureen,  as  if  in  a  dream,  watched  the  whole  scene 
enacted  in  front  of  her,  saw  Columb  Ruagh  in  the  light 
of  the  lonely  cabin  struggling  with  his  pick,  tearing  the 
very  bowels  from  the  floor.  Over  his  head,  as  if  moved  by 
the  tremendous  vitality  of  the  man,  the  lamp  swung  back- 
wards and  forwards,  keeping  time  with  his  labors.  It 
swung  down  so  that  the  man's  shadow  was  thrown  on  the 
further  wall;  up,  and  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  his 
tanned  face  were  lit  like  jewels  on  brown  satin;  it  swung 
back  as  if  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the  sharp-edged  pick, 
and  forward  shedding  its  light  on  the  labor-polished  steel. 

But  unequally  distributed,  the  two  lights,  fire  and  lamp, 
while  throwing  the  man  into  such  prominent  relief,  hardly 
illumined  the  corner  recesses  of  the  room.  Here  a  thou- 
sand fantastic  effects  were  produced,  picturesque  and 
weird.  A  creel,  a  basket  outlined  so  faintly,  might  have 
been  taken  for  phantoms  of  a  disordered  mind;  the  moist 
streak  on  the  wall  where  water  ran  in  the  wet  weather 
gleamed  with  the  borrowed  light  like  a  bar  of  polished  gold. 
Here  and  there,  where  the  damp  oozed  through  the  wall, 
the  stones  reflected  facets  of  light  that  were  mischievous 
eyes  staring  from  the  blackness.  The  clatter  of  the  striking 


POTHEEN  365 

pick,  the  grunts  of  the  man,  echoed  from  every  corner ;  and 
the  whole  cabin  was  instinct  with  life,  but  life  so  grotesque 
and  fantastic  that  Maureen  shuddered. 

"This  is  it!"  yelled  the  man.  "Here,  Maureen  Malley. 
Come  and  look  at  it!  See  what  Columb  Ruagh  has  in  his 
keepin'  and  all  for  yourself!" 

As  he  spoke  he  threw  down  his  pick,  went  on  his  knees 
by  the  hole  newly  made,  and  dragged  therefrom  a  large, 
rusty  iron  box. 

"This  is  it!"  he  yelled,  "this  is  it!"  and  lifting  the 
pick  again  he  crashed  it  through  the  lid.  "This  is  it, 
Maureen  Malley ! "  he  shouted,  raising  the  box  in  his  arms, 
coming  over  to  the  girl  and  emptying  its  contents  on  the 
floor  at  her  feet.  From  the  box  fell  a  shower  of  coins, 
gold  and  silver ;  sovereigns,  crowns,  and  florins.  They  fell 
at  her  boots,  rolled  across  the  floor,  under  the  bed,  into 
the  fire,  making  themselves  beds  in  the  ashes. 

"There,  there,  it's  running  away  from  me!"  he  yelled, 
as  if  an  overmastering  passion  had  suddenly  reasserted  its 
sway,  and,  rushing  to  the  fireplace,  he  groped  amidst  the 
cinders  for  the  gold  which  had  rolled  that  way.  "It  went 
here,  a  yellow  boy,"  he  said,  taking  a  red-hot  coal  in  his 
hand  and  looking  beneath  it.  "And  in  these  ruts  anything 
can  be  lost,"  he  screamed,  running  his  fingers  through  a 
groove  in  the  hearth  and  tearing  out  the  ash  which  filled  it. 
"No,  it's  gone,  it's  lost,"  he  groaned.  "Where  is  it,  the 
one  that  fell  here?  I  saw  it  run  into  the  ashes.  It's  hard 
to  get,  but  it  goes  easy.  Did  ye  see  it,  Maureen  Malley? 
Did  ye  see  it?" 

He  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  talking  to  the  girl, 
that  she  was  watching  him,  and  he  stood  upright,  his  shirt 
open  down  the  front,  exposing  the  red  hairs  which,  knotted 
and  twisted,  lined  his  massive  chest. 

"That'll  do!"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  self -reproof,  as  if 
suddenly  regaining  control  of  himself.  ' '  That  '11  do !  Ye  're 
goin'  off  yer  head,  that's  what  ye 're  doin'.  A  guinea  less 
or  more  and  what  does  it  matter?  There's  enough  and  to 
spare  left.  So  enough  iv  it,"  he  said,  and  a  ghastly  ex- 
pression showed  on  his  face.  "Enough  iv  it!  It's  all  for 


366  MAUREEN 

yerself,  Maureen,  every  penny  and  every  piece.  I  don't 
want  it  any  more!  It's  all  saved  for  yerself,  Maureen. 
Take  it,  take  it!" 

He  bent,  lifted  a  handful  of  gold  and  placed  it  in  the 
girl's  lap.  She  thrust  it  away,  and,  terror-stricken,  she 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  must  go  home,"  she  said  in  a  strangled  whisper,  fix- 
ing a  vacant,  horrified  stare  on  the  man,  while  thoughts 
danced  in  her  mind  like  feathers  in  a  whirlwind.  To 
make  her  way  out  and  go  home  seemed  simple  and  conclu- 
sive enough,  but  at  the  same  moment  a  premonition  of 
something  horrible  and  hideous  which  was  about  to  take 
place  filled  her  mind.  In  a  maze  she  could  hear  tke 
last  coin,  which  had  fallen  from  her  apron,  finish  its  roll 
on  the  floor.  At  the  same  moment  a  pair  of  cruel  red  eyes 
afire  with  brutish  rage  looked  into  hers,  and  a  shower  of 
gold  again  fell  into  her  lap.  The  hands  that  dropped  the 
gold  seized  hers.  She  was  lifted  in  the  air,  almost  to  the 
swinging  lamp,  then  felt  herself  laid  down  again  on  the 
bed  in  the  corner. 

"Columb  Ruagh,  is  it  goin'  to  kill  me  that  ye  are?"  she 
screamed.  "Let  me  go!  Oh,  Mother  iv  God!" 

IX 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  Cathal  Cassidy,  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day  completed,  took  his  way  homewards  from 
the  village  of  Kineeragh.  The  cart  rumbled  out  from  the 
streets  and  their  lines  of  houses  into  the  valley  that  twisted 
and  turned  to  the  foot  of  Binbawn. 

The  wooden  fences,  earthen  dykes  and  sparse  hedges 
which  lined  the  roadway  began  to  crawl  by.  Here  and 
there  stood  a  few  thatched  cottages  which  seemed  to  have 
strayed  out  from  the  village  like  chickens  from  a  clutch. 
Lamps  were  lit,  and  through  the  open  door  of  one  house 
Cathal  could  see  a  number  of  men  sitting  down,  round  a 
table,  gambling.  An  old  woman  wearing  a  white  frilled 
cap  was  stirring  a  stirabout-pot,  and  a  dog  lay  on  the 
floor  hunting  for  fleas. 


POTHEEN  367 

One  by  one  the  houses  gradually  disappeared  and  Cathal 
was  out  on  the  road,  crooked  and  unfenced,  that  ran  across 
the  moor  towards  Binbawn  and  the  cross-roads  of  Grin- 
nan.  But  it  was  miles  to  Crinnan  yet.  However,  the  pony 
knew  the  road  and  the  little  animal  had  only  to  go  straight 
on,  which  it  would  do,  needing  neither  whip  nor  rein. 
Cathal  could  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  cart  and  sleep  if  he 
wished  to  do  so.  He  was  sleepy,  for  he  had  been  out  of 
bed  since  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

He  tied  the  reins  to  a  breeching-link,  shoved  a  bag  of 
plants  near  the  front  board  of  the  cart,  stretched  out  his 
legs,  and  rested  his  head  on  the  bag.  Here  he  could  sleep 
without  taking  any  further  heed  of  the  pony,  which,  know- 
ing the  mountain  road  so  well,  would  be  sure  to  bring  the 
young  man  to  Crinnan  cross-roads. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  thought  of  Maureen.  She  would 
be  traveling  by  foot  on  the  road  from  the  Boon  Well  by 
now,  her  eyes  a  little  tired  maybe,  but  her  heart  full  of 
thoughts  of  him.  Perhaps  even  now  she  had  arrived  at 
the  cross-roads  and  was  sitting  there  by  the  fire  waiting. 

He  thought  of  the  previous  night  and  the  time  when  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms  by  the  roadside !  Her  lips  so  soft 
against  his!  Her  little  fingers  pressing  his  hand  just  in 
this  manner!  With  the  fingers  of  one  hand  he  pressed 
the  palm  of  the  other  softly,  and  in  dreams  he  was  again 
in  Maureen's  company. 

He  suddenly  awoke.  It  was  now  close  on  nine  o'clock, 
and  Cathal  as  he  sat  up  could  see  the  road  in  front  of  him 
stretching  upwards  towards  the  hills  of  Crinnan.  On  his 
right  was  the  peak  of  Binbawn  rising  coldly  and  sternly 
towards  the  stars.  Under  him  the  wheels  of  the  cart 
gritted  the  gravel  of  the  roadway. 

It  was  four  miles  to  the  summit  of  Crinnan  now,  to  the 
cross-roads  and  Maureen  O'Malley.  He  should  have  been, 
there  by  this  time,  but  having  so  much  business  to  do  at 
Kineeragh  Cathal  could  not  get  away  as  early  as  he  in- 
tended. But  Maureen  would  wait  for  him.  She  would 
understand. 

He  was  now  on  the  outer  lip  of  the  parish,  in  a  district 


368  MAUREEN 

common  to  all  and  owned  by  none.  Here  were  no  houses. 
The  waste  was  buried  in  deep,  sullen  slumber,  gloomy  and 
forbidding.  In  the  whole  perspective  of  mute  lands  there 
was  something  not  alone  dumb  but  menacing. 

Apart  from  the  mysterious  sighs  of  Nature  there  was 
not  a  sound.  The  stillness  and  solitude  inspired  awe. 
Coming  through  here  at  night  as  he  had  often  done,  cut 
off  from  the  society  of  his  kind,  from  the  wise,  year-mel- 
lowed words  of  the  old  and  the  heedless  laughter  of  the 
young,  a  feeling  of  fear  always  settled  on  the  soul  of 
Cathal.  In  the  desert  peace  of  the  uplands,  with  the 
hard,  distant  stars  glaring  pitilessly  down,  there  was  some- 
thing cruel  and  austere.  Death  rose  from  the  soundless 
depths  of  distance  and  space  and  breathed  coldly  on  the 
man. 

Oh,  Donegal!  of  the  dark-haired  passes  and  haughty 
peaks,  gloomy,  unknown  depths  and  cold  heights,  what 
have* you  to  say?  Is  there  a  message  to  be  heard  in  the 
persistent  moan  of  the  wind  in  your  glens,  in  the  discon- 
solate sea  wailing  on  your  surf -bitten  shores?  Is  there 
something  to  be  learned  from  the  sun-bright  luster  of 
Croagh  an  Airgead,  the  haughty  coldness  of  Errigal,  the 
drum  of  the  sea  on  Tory  and  the  white  laugh  of  the  waters 
on  the  teeth  of  Gweebarra  Bay?  Errigal  has  listened  to 
the  thousand  light  feet  on  the  dancing-floors  of  Gweedore, 
but  the  white  bones  of  the  time-forgotten  dancers  curve 
and  curtsey  now  in  the  waters  of  many  a  gale  that  threshes 
the  shores  of  Tirconail.  They  were  and  are  not,  they  are 
and  will  not  be.  And  we  shall  go  also.  So  they  chant,  the 
winds  in  the  dark-haired  passes,  the  waves  on  the  sea-bit- 
ten shores. 

The  cart  rumbled  on  round  the  hem  of  Binbawn.  Cathal, 
unable  to  sleep  again,  was  sitting  on  his  bag  of  plants,  his 
pipe  lit  and  his  mind  filled  with  dreams  of  Maureen  and 
love,  memories  of  the  past  and  hopes  of  the  future. 

Cathal  was  very  well-to-do  and  had  some  money  laid 
by.  His  farm  in  Meenaroodagh  was  a  good  strip  of  land, 
hill  and  holm,  the  former  containing  bog  without  bottom, 


POTHEEN  369 

the  latter,  fields  that  rose  higher  than  the  biggest  flood.  A 
road  ran  from  his  door  to  the  spreadfield  on  the  uplands, 
and  possessing  a  pony  and  cart  he  could  draw  all  the  turf 
to  the  very  hearth.  The  hay  dried  quickly,  and  with  fair 
weather  to  harvest  Cathal  was  sure  of  a  strong  winter 
house,  potatoes  in  piles,  meal  in  plenty  from  Stranarachary 
mill,  good  milking  cows  and  a  warm  hearth-stone. 

Cathal's  mother,  Sheila  Shemus  Bawn,  was  a  great 
worker,  with  ready  hands  for  any  job,  washing,  baking, 
milking  and  herding  the  cows,  letting  ropes,  rickling  turf, 
spreading  manure  on  the  potato  ridges.  Three  cows  were 
under  her  care  in  the  byre,  and  she  had  many  ducks  and 
hens,  all  good  layers  and  easy  feeders.  In  fact  the  whole 
farm  was  a  very  good  one,  none  like  it  in  the  barony,  with 
fields  well  fenced,  turf  snugly  clamped  and  hay  and  corn 
neatly  stacked.  The  thatched  and  limewashed  home  of 
Cathal  Cassidy  had  a  hearty  door  for  the  woman  to  be, 
for  Maureen  O'Malley. 

When  Cathal  Cassidy  encountered  Micky  Og  on  the  road 
near  Binbawn  and  heard  of  the  fallen  Bridge  of  Cleena, 
he  turned  his  horse  round  and  drove  back  again.  From 
where  he  turned  the  road  to  the  summit  of  Crinnan  was 
five  miles  by  Cleena  Brae,  but  going  back,  circling  Bin- 
bawn and  taking  the  Boon  Well  road,  the  journey  would 
be  lengthened  by  a  league  and  more.  It  was  the  only  way 
home  now;  the  Dungarrow-Kineeragh  road  ran  through  a 
land  of  bog  and  mire,  and  it  was  impossible  for  a  wheeled 
vehicle  to  make  headway  outside  the  confines  of  the  high- 
way. 

Cleena  Bridge  was  a  very  rude  construction  made  by 
the  peasantry.  The  structure  was  one  of  the  simplest ;  two 
beams  of  bog  oak  were  laid  across  a  mountain  stream,  their 
ends  resting  on  the  banks  at  opposite  sides.  Transverse 
boards  were  laid  from  beam  to  beam;  these  were  nailed 
down  and  the  structure  was  complete.  For  years  this 
bridge,  when  the  weather  was  dry,  carried  the  traffic  from 
many  a  fair.  In  the  wet  weather  the  roads  which  it  joined 
were  absolutely  impossible  for  a  vehicle  with  wheels.  But 


370  MAUREEN 

now  that  the  bridge  was  down  Cathal  Cassidy  was  in  no 
way  surprised.  For  many  a  long  day  he  had  marveled  that 
it  should  stand  so  long. 

In  the  morning  at  one  o'clock  he  arrived  at  the  house 
of  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran  on  the  Crinnan  cross-roads. 


FINALIT7 

Once  'twas  my  song  at  a  ball, 

My  dance  at  a  wedding; 

But  now  the  bones  of  me  call 

For  bed  and  bedding: 

Sheet  and  sheeting  that's  sound, 

And  I  will  go  off  in 

Pomp  to  the  house  in  the  ground, 

The  clay,  in  a  coffin. 

'Tis  seed-time  at  Candlemas, 

Then,  there  let  it! 

There  are,  when  I  come  to  pass, 

Fine  men  to  set  it; 

Men,  and  them  hale  and  strong — • 

Of  breed  and  breeding. 

Their  hands  won't  idle  long, 

Sowing  and  seeding! 

It's  a  brave  turf  fire  the  night 
In  the  house  I've  grown  old  in — 
A  narrow  home  is  vn  sight, 
But  room  to  grow  cold  in! 
Is  it  Candlemas  now  with  its  rainf 
Or  Lammas  Day  with  the  mowing  t 
Neither  will  know  me  again, 
And  it  time  to  be  going. 


371 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  ANCIENTS 

TOWARDS  noon  of  the  same  day,  news  of  a  tragedy, 
grave  and  horrible,  began  to  pass  from  lip  to  lip 
through  all  the  cabins  from  Crinnan  in  the  hills  to 
Drimeeney  on  the  sea.  The  police  in  force  and  fully  armed 
passed  eastwards  through  Meenarood  and  Meenaroodagh. 
Then  came  the  newspapermen  on  motor  cars  with  note- 
books and  pencils  and  cameras.  They  took  photos  of  the 
byre  which  was  once  Maureen's  home,  of  the  house  by  the 
Crinnan  cross-roads,  the  house  of  Columb  Ruagh  Keeran, 
and  the  cabin  where  lived  Sheila  Shemus  Bawn,  the  mother 
of  the  Sein  Feiner  Cathal  Cassidy.  The  telegraph  wires 
of  Stranarachary  hummed,  carrying  abroad  the  details 
of  a  great  crime,  a  Sein  Fein  tragedy,  which  on  that  night 
would  be  an  extra  course  for  a  Dublin  dinner,  and  on  the 
morning  to  be  a  titbit  for  the  London  breakfast-table. 

It  was  rumored  that  armed  soldiers  were  already  on 
their  way  towards  Stranarachary,  their  remedial  bayonets 
in  readiness.  For  what?  For  something  that  surged 
higher  than  the  administration  of  man,  an  ancient  passion, 
which  like  a  new  thought  brooked  no  dominance  and  ad- 
mitted no  hindrance. 

The  news  of  the  tragedy  gripped  Dungarrow  like  mighty 
tentacles,  drawing  the  people  together  as  a  rake  draws  the 
wisps  of  a  haggard  into  one  heap.  Never  in  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  was  such  an  assemblage  under  one  roof  as 
that  which  filled  the  house  of  Condy  Heelagh  when  dark- 
ness had  fallen.  The  old  had  gotten  new  vigor  into  their 
bones,  the  young  were  frightened  and  stared  one  at  the 
other  with  wild  eyes ;  the  men  were  silent  and  the  women 
wept  while  they  prayed. 

373 


374  MAUREEN 

Coy  Fergus  Beeragh,  bed-ridden  for  the  past  three  weeks 
and  hastening  death  by  leaving  his  blankets,  was  there. 
Condy  Heelagh  had  left  his  customary  seat  by  the  fire  and 
was  up  and  about,  taking  the  greatest  interest  in  things 
which  had  not  attracted  his  attention  for  many  years;  the 
delf  on  the  dresser,  the  hang  of  the  lamp  suspended  from 
the  roof-beam,  the  curve  and  finish  of  his  long-discarded 
last.  Sally  Rourke  told  her  beads,  her  eyes  and  ears  open 
to  the  expressions  on  the  neighbors'  faces  and  the  words 
that  they  spoke.  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal  was  there,  the 
clay  as  yet  unsettled  over  her  man  that  was.  But  noth- 
ing was  now  out  of  place.  The  end  of  the  world  was  near 
at  hand,  surely. 

"The  sojers  are  comin',"  said  Condy  Heelagh.  "That's 
the  talk  on  the  road  now." 

"Under  God,  the  day  and  the  night,"  said  Peggy  Rib- 
big,  her  wrinkle-lidded  eyes  trembling  wearily  as  if  she 
were  waking  from  a  sleep. 

"Shid  a  vaha  Wuirra,"  sobbed  Sally  Rourke,  giving 
utterance  to  the  first  words  of  the  Ave  to  show  that  the 
calamity  had  bitten  deeply  into  her  heart. 

"The  three  iv  them,  all  in  one  night!"  said  Cassie  She- 
mus Meehal.  She  was  standing  upright,  and  the  shadow 
of  her  long,  black  form  swayed  backwards  and  forwards 
on  the  earthen  floor. 

"And  the  floor  was  covered  with  gold,  in  the  ashes  and 
under  the  bed,"  said  Peggy  Ribbig  with  a  husky  groan. 
"The  polis  will  have  their  hands  on  all  iv  it." 

"Micky  Og  saw  the  three  iv  them  lyin'  dead  in  the 
house,"  said  Liam  Logan.  "Columb  Ruagh  with  his  head 
in  the  ashes  and  it  walloped  in,  and  Cathal  beside  the  door 
with  a  bullet  through  him." 

"And  Maureen  was  lyin'  on  the  bed,  dead,"  said  some 
one  from  near  the  door. 

"It  was  maybe  one  iv  the  guns,"  said  Sally  Rourke, 
crossing  herself  while  her  face  contracted  as  if  she  were 
terrified  of  something. 

"There's  no  guns,  I  hear,"  said  the  voice  from  the  door. 


THE  ANCIENTS  375 

The  speaker  was  Corney  McKelvie.  "Columb  Kuagh  sold 
them  back  to  the  polis." 

"Micky  Og's  out  iv  his  mind,  too,"  said  Liam  Logan, 
clutching  a  chair  convulsively  and  fixing  a  hard  look  on 
the  fire. 

"It's  past  talkin'  about,"  said  Cassie  Shemus  Meehal. 

"It  is  that,"  whimpered  Coy  Fergus  Beeragh  with  a 
cold  shudder,  raising  his  arm  to  his  chin,  then  dropping 
it  to  his  side  and  sinking  into  himself  again. 

"If  Maldy  Kennedy  were  to  see  this  day,"  said  Condy 
Heelagh,  setting  four  wet  turf  upright,  head  to  head,  on 
the  ash-powdered  embers  of  the  hearth. 

"Aye  that!  And  Nancy  Logan,  too,  God  rest  her!" 
said  Sally  Rourke,  trickling  her  beads  through  her  fingers. 

"One  wouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  only  Maureen  Malley," 
groaned  Anne  Heelagh  in  a  thick  voice. 

"Aye,  if  it  was  one  itself,  but  three  iv  them,  God  rest 
them!"  Peggy  Ribbig  moaned.  "Was  a  thing  like  it 
ever  seen  or  heard  tell  iv  in  the  whole  wide  world!" 

"I  mind  once,  fifty  years  ago,"  said  Coy  Fergus  Bee- 
ragh in  a  wheezy  voice,  as  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  near 
him.  "Fifty  years  the  Christmas  past  or  the  Christmas 
comin',  I'm  not  sure.  And  there  was  a  man — " 


THE  END 


A    000033163     7 


